Tender Wound
by kkolmakov
Summary: Wren of Enedwaith, a healer of Men, is a mistress of both Frerin and Thorin, sons of Thrain. The arrangement is favoured by all three of them, until an unexpected change comes, and each one of them has to make their choice *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My darlings, as you have probably understood from the description, it's an AU and very different from my previous writing. Please, be advised. **

**Just a note: in my mind I follow the Tumblr tradition of Frerin, Thorin's younger brother to look like Gerard Butler, especially the way he looks in _Beowulf &amp; Grendel_.**

* * *

Since there are so few Dwarven women and even fewer of them are willing to come to Erebor once it has been reclaimed, most having an established life in other mountains, Thorin decides to turn a blind eye to the fact that his younger brother, Frerin brings his mistress with him to reside Under the Mountain. She is of Men, and by the time they arrive to Erebor she has been Frerin's woman for five years.

The renovations and building proper life for everybody take a lot of effort, Thorin's wounds hurt, and marriage is the last thing on his mind. Fili is recovering from his lesions, and it goes without saying that he is the next in line for the throne, since he is the son of the middle child of Thrain, son of Thror. Frerin is never to rule, and Thorin is beyond his prime, both of them are seeking no wife.

With time Thorin finds out that Frerin's mistress has been a healer, and Frerin suggests she helps Thorin with the pain in the maimed leg. She has balms and very strong small hands.

With time Thorin and Frerin start sharing her in bed. They have shared women for many years, Frerin always being the charming one and finding the willing ones, Thorin too busy for such trite matters. The red haired woman in Frerin's bedchambers is lithe, skillful and flexible, she is used to Dwarven appetites, and Thorin comes to value her immensely. With time it is not just her bedroom skills, she can tend to old wounds, listens attentively when news and aggravations are shared with her, never rattles, her answers are always to the point and endlessly reasonable, and although Thorin himself never asks for it and feels slightly irritated at the beginning when Frerin does, soon the King realises that her advice is to be listened to.

* * *

Frerin loves Wren. There is certain calmness in her that he finds comforting. She is never in a rush, she is always where he needs her, and after all these years he is used to her. They share a sarcastic sense of humour, so rare among Dwarves, and she makes faces to him discreetly when other Dwarves are present and she is not pleased with what is said. She is insatiable in bed, but there is some sort of mildness to her. While her cool hands soothe the shoulder that has never fully recovered after the Battle of Azanulbizar, her reserved and even disposition brings peace to his mind.

* * *

Wren is standing on her hands and knees, and Frerin leans in, kissing down her back, slowly approaching her perky buttocks. He places a few little bites on her waist, and he knows she is ticklish there, and she would definitely giggle, if they were alone, but Thorin is kneeling in front of her, her red lips are wrapped around his length and she is sucking vigorously. Thorin pushes his hand into her hair, pulling her head closer, and she makes a soft moaning sound that, Frerin knows, means that Thorin's tip slid into her throat.

"Look at me, Wren," Thorin rasps, his burning eyes on her face, and Frerin assumes she does, since Thorin gently brushes her cheek with his other hand.

Frerin chuckles, he knows that Thorin is in for a surprise, and just as he expected Wren slightly tilts her head, allowing Thorin's member slide even deeper. A low growl escapes Thorin's lips, and he drops his head back, his hand slips out of her hair, his arms hanging limp along his body. Frerin enters her from behind, brushing the tips of his fingers on her folds before it, letting her prepare. She moans loudly and he assumes it is both from pleasure and as a thank you for the warning. The sound makes Thorin grunt, and suddenly he grabs the back of her head with both hands and Frerin sees him jerkily thrust into her throat several time, spilling his seed.

* * *

Thorin enters his brother's chambers one evening only to find the red haired woman alone, at a small desk in the corner of the parlour. She is writing something industriously, but puts the quill aside when she notices him. There is a warm calm smile on her lips, and although he came to discuss some matters with his brother, he heavily sits in an armchair. She still hasn't said a word. She tilts her head and lifts one brow. He chuckles and pats the armrest of his chair. She is wearing a simple home dress, green and demure. He has never seen her in anything but such attires.

"Frerin is in negotiations with the envoys from the Iron Hills, my lord," she is perched on the armrest, her pert backside is near his shoulder, and he leans back and closes his eyes. He is tired, and the rain that wouldn't stop for the last two weeks makes his joints ache dully. "Would you like a bath with herbal essences, my lord? It will ease the pain." He peeks at her with one eye. She is knowledgeable, that he knows by now, and he likes how she doesn't need to ask. There is still a soft smile on her lips, and he nods.

While she is clanking with something in the bath chamber, he idely walks around the parlour. The letters she was writing are in a thick neat pile on the corner of the table, and for the first time in almost two years since she started residing in Erebor and in six moons he has had her in bed, he asks himself what it is that she does every day. Dwarven women pursue all sorts of vocations, there is also housekeeping, but what does a woman of Men to do in a Dwarven city residing in royal halls?

"I am in charge of herbs supplies in the city infirmary, my lord," her voice is slightly laced with laughter, and he twirls on his heels. He was not, but it looks like he was rummaging through her belongings. "Through our travels with Frerin, I have made many beneficial connections." She has a strange manner of speaking, well articulated and cautious, her phrases thought through and her voice melodic.

* * *

The bath is hot, some unfamiliar fragrances swim in the air, and he sees some purple flowers in the tub. He hesitates and hears a little giggle behind him.

"These are not to even out your skin or give it radiance, and not for aroma either, my lord," she is holding a large sheet in her hands, "These are to soothe the pain. And hopefully prevent the hemicrania." He wonder how she knows. The headache is indeed coming, he has felt the first pangs, and he sinks in the water.

She puts a goblet with mead on a low table near him, and then places a few bottles, with soap for hair perhaps, and a little clay bowl. He gives it a confused look.

"For the beads from the hair," she is by the wall, sorting something in the cupboard full of bottles and vials, her back to him. He wonders how she knows what he is looking at. "Where is that soap?" Even when she mumbles under her nose, it sounds as if she is reciting poetry. He wonders where she grew up, there is a strange lilt to her words in Common Speech. She turns around and brings a bar of soap to him. "I shall leave you to it then, my lord." She gives him a small bow, and he catches her skirt.

"Sit with me, Wren," he doesn't know why he asks, but there is a little stool by the wall, and just as he assumes she moves it closer and sits behind his back leaned to the edge of the tub.

Her hands lie on his shoulders, he already knows how strong and skillful they are, and then she carefully picks up his hair and moves it over his shoulder. He mentally notes her consideration, she doesn't even offer to wash it. It is indeed an honour reserved for a wife, and then she starts kneading his muscles, and he realises how tired they were, and how much better they feel now.

"Forgive my impudence, my lord," she speaks quietly, and he hums showing her she may continue, "But I am certain your chair in your study is too tall for you. That is where at least a third of your backache comes from. You spend many hours there, and it is a strain for your back. You are taller than most Khazad, you need a lower chair." He opens his eyes and slightly turns to look at her. Her face is calm, but then her turn-up noses twitches. It is a nervous gesture, and he gets to see it very rarely. There are bright orange freckles on her nose and cheekbones.

It is hot in the chamber, and in the spicy fragrant steam a little curl is stuck to her wet temple, and her lips seem especially red. She has a wide mouth, and he remembers how her soft lips wrap around his member. He has never had her without Frerin being in the same bed with them, but he has learnt her well. He sees desire flare up in her eyes when he places his palm on the side of her neck. He then cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips. Her mouth readily opens, and then he twists, grabs her around her middle with another arm and drags her into the tub. She emits a little squeak he has never heard before, and then she shifts and stretches on him.

He is kissing her greedily, his hands cupping her angular face, and then he grabs the back of her dress, the two halves of the laced corset, and jerks. There is a sound of tearing ribbons and fabric, and she lifts her face from his and tut-tuts. It is a playful, flirty sound, and he grins to her. He pushes his fingers into her hair, quickly destroying the braids and enjoying the soft curls running through his fingers. She catches his mouth again. They pull off her dress and the undertunic together, tangling in them and laughing, and then he gets impatient and tears her bloomers as well.

"Would you stop this barbarian behaviour already?" She is laughing and grabs his ear. It is different this time, she is freer with him, and he thinks he might like it.

He pick her up under her backside, one round buttock in each hand, and she bends backwards, encircles his base, and guides him inside her. He likes her flexibility, and the way tendons show on her long elegant neck when she twists her back. He slides inside, she is very tight, and she emits a raspy low moan. They start moving, in still warm water, he is sucking at her throat, her fingers are digging into his shoulders, and he starts inclining her back, one of his hands between her shoulder blades. She relaxes into this new position, her head drops all the way back, and he sees the ends of her fiery curls slither in the water. Her torso is in a steep arch, and he covers her small breast with the other hand. The peaks are bright red, puckered and tense, and a shudder runs through her body from his touch. He is bucking his hips, and she is moving forcefully. Their climax is simultaneous, her hands grip at his forearms, and before everything goes white in the charring pleasure he pulls her up and back into him. She slacks, her arms go around his neck, and she is breathing heavily.

Her forehead is pressed to his temple, and he slightly turns his head and kisses her cheekbone. She starts laughing softly, and he joins. There is no reason or rhyme in their frolics, but he is enjoying this moment.

She climbs out of the tub and goes to dry her hair in front of the fireplace. By the time he is done with his bath, she is already asleep on a low settee in the parlour. Frerin comes back to the chambers soon after, and before they start their conversation Thorin watches his brother pick the small woman up and carry her to the bedchambers.

* * *

Winter comes, Wren wakes up in the middle of the night and understands that her bed is empty. She finds Frerin smoking in front of an open window of the parlour, but cold never bothers him. She is bare, just a cover thrown on her shoulders, and she immediately starts shivering. He gives her an absent-minded smile, and opens one arm in an invitation. She slips on his lap, and he presses her into him. His skin is scorching, like of any Dwarf, and she is looking at the stars in the ink of the night sky.

"I miss the road," his tone is melancholic, and he puts the pipe aside. He sharply exhales with an open mouth, watching his warm breath swirl in the air.

"Me too," she answers softly and pulls her legs up hiding them under the cover. She is twirling the bead of one of the plaits on the side of his face in her hand. "But you want to stay with your family. This is where you belong. You are just bored with the negotiations." He sighs, and she slightly shifts and nuzzles his hair behind his ear. It is soft, and silky, of the brightest golden brown.

"I'd rather fight Orcs," he grumbles, "Than sit through all these discussions of how many guards are to accompany the merchants, and where they are to stay, and other igbêr karâk zifîr," he spits out, and she cups his face and gently turns his head making him meet her eyes.

"Izul kuthu barafzu tashmari ra dûmzu fuluz muneb samragi." _Only when your family is guarded and your halls are prosperous should you feast._ Her Khuzdul is impeccable, consonants deep and raspy, and words run melodically. She reminds him of the Dwarven ways, family and prosperity above merriment, and he laughs.

"You are such a Khuzd, Wren. Only you can compare fighting Orcs to a feast." She strokes the side of his face, and he leans into her palm.

"I'm no Dwarf, manardûnuh, but you are. You are the son of Thrain, son of Thror, son of Dain," she quickly brushes her lips to his, feeling the whiskers under her lips. He has a surprisingly soft beard, of a slightly darker shade than his beautiful hair. "You value your family, you want to bring prosperity to your people, and you just need more time for sparring to entertain yourself." He smiles to her widely, white teeth gleaming, and then he grabs her and moves her to straddle him. The cover slides down, and he dramatically bites into her shoulder. She gives him the yelp he is hoping for.

"I have no strength for sparring, woman. You wear me out." She grabs handfuls of his waves and pulls, making him drop his head back and bare his neck. She gives it a long lick, and then bites into his jaw with a small unimpressive growl.

"It's all this stern demeanor of yours, at the negotiations, manardûnuh. Looking at you in the council halls, no one would believe you are the man who got so drunk in Bree once that he tried to charm a training dummy into spending a night with us." He bursts into booming laughter.

"She was an enticing lass!" She is laughing too.

"Seeing this new matured decorum of yours makes me very, very, very..." She is placing small kisses along his jaw, between her words, closer and closer to his ear, and he is squinting his eyes like a giant cat, she watches his fluffy lashes, that she adores so much, from the corner of her eye.

"You were saying, halawi?" The rasp in his voice makes her arch into him, pulling his hair back more.

"Wet," she exhales into his ear, he growls and pushes her on the floor, covering her with his heavy body. Her breath is knocked out of her, and she laughs throatily, wrapping her legs around him.

* * *

**A/N: Firstly, all the credit and the blame for Gerard Butler (mostly from _Beowulf &amp; Grendel_) as Frerin who miraculously survived the Battle of Azanulbizar and popped up in my writing belongs to Wynni. She just gushed on how fit he was, and I didn't argue obviously and told her of how GB is the headcanon for Frerin on Tumblr. And then she started writing her lovely Modern AU _All's Faire in Love and War_ (do check it out, it's to die for!), and my muse said "what the hell" (pronounce in your head with Eleven's intonations :D) **

**Secondly, it was initially planned as a two chapter fic, but at this stage it looks like a three-shot (all puns intended :D). As we all know, I rarely manage to stay in the limits I set for myself. But something tells me some of you don't mind ;)**

* * *

igbêr karâk zifîr = (Khuzdul) melting lead shards (a foolish tedious endeavour with little profit as a result)

manardûnuh = (Khuzdul) the one I care for

halawi = (Khuzdul) honey-like


	2. Chapter 2

Spring comes grudgingly, and the red haired healer's seat at the dinner table has been empty for a week. The river is flooded, Thorin has no time for dalliances, he mostly falls asleep on his table in the study, he takes his meals there as well, but occasionally all family still gathers in the Dining Hall. Frerin looks exhausted, he is overseeing the building of fortifications around the North dam.

They get up from the table, Thorin is to return to his study, he picks up his brother's elbow and pulls him closer, "Where is Wren?"

"She has been ill, winter fever. She is recovering now," Frerin rubs his face, he has not slept for two nights.

A fortnight later the flood has finally ebbed, and life returns to its old ways, except the healer is still not back. Thorin stops by Frerin's chambers and finds his brother drinking ale with some of his friends. Thorin joins in, and they spend an evening in pleasant revelry. By the dawn they are all drunk, and Frerin is playing with one of his short thick daggers. Thorin lifts his head from the bed.

"Put that down, you will put your eye out." Frerin booms with laughter.

"You have been saying it since I was twenty, and yet both peepers are still here," he gives his brother a wink, and Thorin stretches his back on the bed with a groan. His head is pleasantly buzzing, and that would be a favourable moment to enjoy a woman. He lazily thinks of asking Frerin to find one, it has always been his task. And then he wonders whether Frerin has any other women besides the redhead. He groans again, thinking of her is making him aroused.

"I hear you, namad," Frerin is chuckling, and Thorin scoffs, he hoped he isn't that easy to read. Judging by the impish gleam in Frerin's green eyes, he was wrong.

"Perhaps someone else..." He offers nonchalantly, and Frerin laughs and widely waves in the air.

"Help yourself, you are a King, any will be willing," he drops his head back on the armchair and closes his eyes. Thorin is not enjoying his muddled state anymore, he is trying to figure out the situation, and his mind is too sluggish after all the ale they drank. Before he started spending evenings in Frerin's chambers he had had several women, but he was always irritated by the discretion and considerations he had to constantly be aware of. They could not be potential brides, as he did not want one, but the rest would be either married, or too independent and demanding. The healer was perfect.

He does not understand. Does Frerin sleep with other women? Does Wren? He once saw a woman leaving Frerin's chambers, but when he entered, the healer was there alone. He knew her well by then, he recognised the blush and the sleepiness usual for her after intimacy. She was curled on the bed, in a light chemise, her curls scattered on the covers. He felt an acute desire to join her, but he had matters to attend, and again, Frerin was not in the room.

He knows the two of them sometimes used to invite other people in their bed, they once got to reminiscing, it was part of their pleasure that evening, Wren was slowly riding Thorin, Frerin, already sated, lay near them on the bed, stroking his half erect member, and then they were recollecting the adventures of before their life in Erebor.

Thorin feels irritation rising. He is hard by then, and he throws an irked look at Frerin.

"Stop glaring at me, nadad. I do not want other women. She will soon be better, Dis said she has started eating already. And since you are trying to burn a hole in my temple, I can go find someone for you," Frerin's tone is light as always, and he makes several flapping movements with his arms, trying to get out of his armchair. Thorin is pondering his words.

"Do not bother," he grumbles, and Frerin falls back with a relieved sigh. Thorin is now moving to the next thought. "Are they friends? With Dis..."

"They respect each other, the infirmary and the midwives who serve there… it is some sort of their shared affair… I know little..." Frerin picks up his goblet from the floor and mournfully studies its empty bottom.

* * *

The next day Thorin carefully inquires from Dis about Wren's health. Dis tells him that Wren had a winter fever, she has been delirious for several days and is very weakened now, but healers have high hopes for her recovery. Dis does not say anything else, and Thorin is leaving her study when he hears a small sigh from his sister. He looks at her softly and pats her shoulder affectionately.

"Do speak up, namad." She smiles to him gratefully.

"She is of Men, Thorin. They have weak nerves. Even Khazad are prone to melancholia after such illness. I have heard of women of Men taking their lives after such prolonged ailment. And she has not seen a single face except her healer for the last moon and a half." Dis leaves it at this, she is perhaps hinting Thorin to tell Frerin to visit his mistress, but something pushes Thorin to act differently.

* * *

He comes into a room they assigned to her in the farthest wing, he is quiet, he thinks she might be sleeping. She is lying in bed, her slanted eyes are fixed on a window, and she is so thinned that his hand freezes on the door. She is pale, her hair is in a simple braid that lies on the pillows, and she looks so young that his heart clenches.

She hears the rustling of his clothes and turns her head. Her gaze is indeed dull, the corners of her red lips are lowered mournfully, and then her eyes widen.

"Good day, honourable maiden," he is jesting because he is suddenly terrified of her fragility. She jerks and tries to rise but he quickly walks in and sits on the edge of her bed. She looks almost transparent, she smells of some unfamiliar soap. He knows her fragrance by now, and the sweet smell coming from her feels wrong. This one is too simple, probably some flowers, and he picks up her hands from covers.

Her face suddenly scrunches in a child-like pained grimace, and she lunges at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She is sobbing loudly, he is stroking her back, and she is clawing at his shoulders.

"I am sorry… I am behaving unseemingly..." Her whole body is shaking, and he presses his lips to her temple.

"You are smearing snot over my best doublet, it is indeed rather improper..." He grumbles, and she laughs through tears. He starts slowly rocking her from side to side, making comforting noises. He is stopping himself from squeezing her tightly, she is frail, he almost cannot feel her in his arms. The piercing thought that they could have lost her makes him press his face to her hair and take a few shuddering breaths in.

He spends several hours in her room, for the first time having an actual conversation with her. She asks about the news, she has not even heard about the flood, her eyes are lively again, thought the old fire is not back yet. She is curious, perceptive and very intelligent, now he thinks he was a fool to know so little about her.

In the evening he has a talk with Frerin, and after that he knows Frerin goes to see her every day. Thorin never does again. She is back to the dinner table a week later. Her usual voracious appetite is back, and she shares occasional laugh with Dis at the table. Then Summer comes, and he notices flowers in her hair from time to time.

* * *

Thorin sometimes falls asleep in Frerin's bed, they tend to get carried away, and they rarely have Wren at the same time. They are both large, and she needs extensive rest after she has to take both of their members at the same time. Since their arousal returns quickly, it is easier just to take turns. So usually one of them, if both of them are in the bed, finishes later, and quite often it is Thorin. He comes late at night, Summer is the time of vibrant trade, he is often in his study till early hours of morning. He slips between the sheets, Frerin is already asleep, and Wren's slender body is often bare. She wraps her arms around Thorin's neck half asleep, her knees open, and a small smile grazes her lips. He notices that with time he thinks of this little smile even during the day.

* * *

She is kneeling on the bed, Thorin is behind her, her back is pressed to his chest. He can see her fingers clenched on the headboard, the knuckles are white, and she is moaning loudly. His hips are snapping into her, it is early morning, he was exceptionally hard when he woke up, his senses flooded with her smell, and he is being rougher than usual. She does not seem to object, she is arching her back now, pushing her hips into him, and there is a demanding note to her moans.

"Stop fucking my woman before dawn, lulkh," Frerin groans and presses a pillow over his ears, "The two of you are so loud..."

Wren snorts, and Thorin leans in and gives her shoulder a long lick. She has amazing skin, pale but radiant, and he nuzzles the freckles peppering her shoulders. They live in a mountain, and she still manages to catch sun somehow.

Unfamiliar cheekiness wakes up in him, and he lifts his hand and gives her pert buttock a nice loud slap. She yelps and looks at him over her shoulder. He cocks a brow to her, she pushes hips back, clearly encouraging him, and he slaps her again. He keeps his palm relaxed, he is not trying to inflict pain, he is aiming for the loudness. She theatrically wails, her eyes are impish, and Frerin rolls off the bed, still pressing the pillow to his ears. He calls them 'bastard children of frogs and half-witted wargs who were dropped head down as pups,' he has always been skillful in swearing, and the two of them are watching his bare backside disappear in the bath chambers. There is a low bench there, that is perhaps where they will find him later, and Wren is giggling. Thorin chuckles low in his chest, and then strokes the silk narrow back with his palm. She is cool, as if fluid, and he leans to her nape and places a tender kiss on the little curls on the hairline. She sighs contently, and he starts moving.

* * *

Thorin wakes up in the middle of the night, a familiar nightmare quaking his body, his teeth are clenched, forehead covered in cold sweat, and his hands are shaking. He is in his bedchamber, and he jerks off the clammy sheets sticking to his body. He stumbles out of the bed and greedily drinks water straight from a jug on the table.

He is taking slow breaths in, but he cannot reign the tremours running through his body. He realises there are tears smeared on his cheek, and he wipes them hastily. They all have the nightmares, Frerin, him, Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili... So many battles are in the past of each of them, so much death…

He looks back at his bed, and his face distorts in a grimace of disgust. The sheets felt soaked in blood, he remembers moons of recovery after the Battle of the Five Armies, the smell of his own rotting flesh, and he suddenly feels nausea rising. He needs to chase the foul stench out of his nose, he can almost taste death and blood on his lips, and he rushes to the passage.

Frerin is sleeping on his side of the bed, on his back, just like he always has since he was a child, one hand on his chest, another one relaxed along his body. The redhead is facing away from him, and Thorin slips under the covers near her. She shifts, moves closer to him, and nuzzles his shoulder. He pulls her to lie on him and buries his nose into her curls. He is greedily breathing in her fragrance. It is lilacs as he now knows, she once brought a bouquet of opulent blooming branches from her trip to Dale, they smelt sweet and pleasant in the bedchambers for a few weeks.

"Lanz galikh, uzbaduh," _Good evening, my lord._ He stares at her in shock. He has never known she speaks Khuzdul.

* * *

Thorin wakes up to the soft moans and rustling. It is time to get up, those were not the noises that wakened him. To think of it, they are probably trying to keep it down, he had long negotiations last night. Wren is straddling Frerin, her body is glowing in the first rays of sunlight pouring through the window, the mane of copper curls is burning like the hottest of forge fires, she has buried her fingers in her fiery waves, and her hips are moving slowly and sensually. Frerin's eyes are closed, just like hers, and the tips of his fingers are dancing on her waist. He then strokes the peaks, and then his thumb is pressed into her clit, hiding in the bright red curls between her legs. She emits a soft grateful moan, and Thorin watches how she brings them both to a concorded completion. She falls on his chest, and then shifts seeking his lips. The kisses are slow and tender, and Thorin closes his eyes and rolls on his side, his back to them.

* * *

Thorin stays at night more often these days, and Frerin does not mind. The bed is large enough, and Thorin is gone much earlier in the morning, so they do not have to tumble over each other when rushing to the bath chambers upon waking up. Frerin prefers to sleep later, and he loves his little redhead in the morning when she is soft, and warm, and rosy from sleep.

It has been months of the same, but only now Frerin suddenly realises that when Thorin spends the night Wren always sleeps curled into his side. The Summer is hot, and the covers have slid off their bodies. Wren can never sleep if something constricts her, for years they have slept with a foot between their bodies if space allowed. She always needs to bend her leg in front of her, and hide her hands under a pillow.

Thorin and her are intertwined, his legs are pressing one of hers to the sheets, the other slender leg is wrapped around his hips, both his arms are around her, her hand is splayed on his chest, fingers buried in his chesthair. Wren always says how fond she is of Dwarven hairiness. Unfamiliar feeling stirs in Frerin, and he is watching his brother and his mistress sleeping in each other's arms for a few minutes until he manages to understand what it is that is dully nagging at his mind. It is jealousy, subdued but painful nonetheless.

He leaves for bath chambers, splashes cold water on his face, and then leaves the Halls. He spends the morning practicing, destroying two training dummies, and chipping his favourite axe. That puts him into even fouler mood, and he yells at the smith and the squires. They are used to his outbursts, the line of Durin is known for their temper, and he smashes the now ruined axe into a wall and stomps away.

* * *

It is late Autumn, the days are already brisk and gloomy, and Thorin receives a note from his brother who asks him to come to his chambers in the evening. Thorin wonders if Frerin is planning another revelry tonight. A week ago the three of them got rather inebriated, Wren drank only one mug, but she gets muddled by a few sips. Frerin and Thorin were playing their harp and lute, singing loudly, she danced in the middle of the room.

Thorin had never seen her dance before. She has recovered from her malady, her body is strong and swift, and she arches, swirls and her slender arms move in the most enticing of ways, small feet placing measured light steps on the floor, she picks up her skirt, Thorin sees her ankles and the little leather slippers. He pushes the harp aside and lunges at her. He takes her on the floor, bunching up her skirts, her moans and cries loud, and in the middle of the act, Frerin joins them. They stand in front of each other, holding her in the air, thrusting up into her in unison.

* * *

Thorin finds Frerin sitting on the bed in his inner tunic and breeches with a confused expression on his face. Wren is pacing in front of the bed, her fast striding the only expression of her apparently agitated state. She decorously asks Thorin to sit, and he joins his brother on the bed. Thorin throws Frerin a questioning look, but Frerin is watching Wren. He is frowning, apprehension and worriment splashing in his eyes. Thorin knows his brother well, open conflict between the kin is what Frerin could never stand. He would rather brood for years than have an open conversation.

Wren suddenly stops, turns to both of them and lifts her chin defiantly.

"I am with child." Her voice is not shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: My darling Just4Me and my other readers, as per usual it is becoming longer than I initially planned. At the moment it is one more chapter after this one, but who knows? :)**

* * *

Frerin's first thought is that Wren had taken a lover from Men and bore his child. Many years ago they discussed that a woman of Men most likely could not have a child of a Dwarf but still Wren has been taking herbs to prevent conception. Frerin feels lost and betrayed. He is taking slow breaths in, his eyes fixed on the floor. He cannot even look at her.

* * *

Thorin's first thought is that Wren has premeditated such move, that it is her way to ensure her status in Erebor. He is enraged, and then the understanding dawns. It is either his son or a nephew that she is carrying. Or a daughter or a niece. His eyes fall on her flat stomach, and he sees her small hands splayed on it protectively. He lifts his eyes at her and sees that her lips are pressed in a resolute line and there is a challenge in her burning irises.

* * *

All Wren cares about at the moment is the well-being of her unborn child. She realised what was going on a few days ago, and she spent all afternoon hiding in a far corner of the library, sitting in an armchair, her knees pulled to her nose. She has been taking herbs, she has given up on the hope of becoming a mother years ago. She often cries quietly in her bath chambers after assisting midwives at a delivery. She spends hours in the infirmary if there is an ailing child. She has had a very lonely life. When she is overtired or agitated, she has dreams of four children playing in the grass and calling her "amad."

She can feel Thorin's derisive stare on her face, she almost wants to run, or hide, anything to protect the small life inside her. But she needs to understand where they are standing. She has nowhere to go, not with a child under her heart, with a winter approaching, and even more so, not knowing how the parturiency is to progress... She might need assistance of healers, she might need herbs, she is not endangering her child. She does not care what happens to her, she needs to ensure the safety and happiness of her child.

She has obviously pondered possible scenarios. Everything can remain the same, she can stay the mistress of Frerin, and just as her presence in Erebor, the presence of her child could just be left undisputed by the Khazad. She is not his wife, neither her, nor the babe will have any rights under the Mountain.

Wren knows both men well by then, and she knows that the circumstances will not remain the same now that she is expecting. As light and content as Frerin seems, he is a Dwarf. He could share her body, but as little as he understands it himself, he has been less and less willing to see Thorin in their bedchambers in the last few moons. Something has changed for him, it is not in his character to linger on these thoughts, but he is more prone to rage outbursts these days, he is less patient and even, and spends more time in the training yard.

And she also can see how much the way Thorin looks at her has changed. She remembers a night last moon, when he slipped under the covers, their eyes met, and he rolled over her. He gently placed a finger over her lips, his member pushed into her, she arched and opened up accepting him, he was moving into her, his palms open under her shoulder blades, the calloused scorching palms under her tingling skin. He was placing soft kisses over her face, and then he pressed his temple to hers, his hips moving in a measured determined rhythm. He brought them both to completion and she did not remember falling asleep, but she knew it was in the comfort of his arms.

Wren trusts neither of them to have a sound judgment, both their faces are dark now, they are clenching fists in identical gestures, and she takes a small step back. They are of Khazad, they will stop at nothing to protect and cherish their children, but she also knows that in a few minutes all the aggravation that has been brewing in these chambers will finally spill.

* * *

"And what are you intending to do now, Wren?" Frerin's voice is flat, and acidic hatred spills on Wren's insides. So now he is asking about her intentions and desires?! She slowly exhales, she is being unfair, he has never forced her into anything. Circumstances have. She was infatuated with him, and he gave her everything he had to offer. She is no Dwarf, they stayed together and drifted through life the best way they could.

When Thorin came into their life, Frerin had actually asked her opinion before even suggesting it to his brother, which is unusual for a Dwarf. A non-Dwarven woman as a constant mistress, as rare as such happens for the Khazad, is perceived as property. She is never to be a wife, and Frerin has been generous and respectful towards her. On the other hand, she could always leave. She cannot now. And there was always a chance she could have been asked to leave the mountain if she was no longer needed. She would expect a generous compensation, but even horses are given the last opulent dinner before they are put down. She agreed on Thorin joining them because she knew that was what Frerin wanted. And she had had dreams of him, suffocating, intoxicating. Unlike Frerin, he frightens her. And right now she wishes she could explain everything to him, but if she talks to him, she will create the disbalance. She is too cautious to do it right now, she needs to understand where both of them stand first.

"I will talk to healers. I am certain it is not unprecedented, they must have heard of Half-Dwarven babes, considering the libidinousness of the Khazad." His answer will tell her a lot.

"Are you saying it is mine?!" His eyes fly up to her face, and she quickly calculates what he must have been thinking. Oh, a lover from Men no doubt. She breathes out in relief, that can be easily disproved once the child is born.

"Or mine," Thorin's voice is quiet, and a shudder runs through her body. She did not expect this. She was concerned with whether they would allow her to stay under the Mountain, she did not expect either of them to care whose child it is. She has been the woman of both of them, convenient and unmentionable, she assumed the child would have the same status. She just expected them to argue over the decorum around the current situation. She did not expect the low menace rolling in Thorin's voice. Her eyes meet Thorin's, and she does not understand the emotion splashing in them.

Wren also knows who the father is, but it matters not. She needs to be careful, she needs to ensure the child's future. Her hands clench over her stomach, as if placing additional defence between the tiny beating heart and the two men who have all the power over her.

* * *

Frerin places the first punch. For the last half an hour they have been arguing over what is the proper thing to do, Thorin is insisting Wren is to be placed in separate rooms and no explanation is provided to anyone. He suggests they just wait and take care of her, which makes Wren believe that he is hoping to figure out who the father is once the baby is born. He is not looking at her. She is not of importance, she thinks, it does not even come to his mind to ask her.

Frerin insists everything remains the same. He throws looks at her from time to time, he is more and more agitated. She knows understanding has started setting in him, there is a child, and he decides to treat the situation as if it is his. He says Wren should remain in his chambers, if they do not discuss it with anyone, the matter will not become public. He evokes the Dwarven tradition of having no intimacy with an expecting woman, and Wren understands it is meant for Thorin. Thorin's burning eyes are on her, roaming her body, and she makes another small step back. And that is when it starts.

"Wren, sit, for Mahal's sake," Thorin's voice is irritated, "This conversation will obviously take long."

"I do not seem to be participating in it," Wren speaks at the same time as Frerin.

"Do not tell her what to do, nadad, it is not your council hall for you to impose your will," Frerin's jaw clenches, and Wren shrinks back. The thing Frerin hates most is upsetting the existing order, and that makes him unreasonable, enraged, dangerous. At the moment he understands that changes are coming.

"Any chamber is my chamber here, nadad," Thorin is plain snarling through his teeth, "I am the King." He has switched to Khuzdul, and Wren wonders if he is trying to hide the meaning of their conversation from her.

"And you have always treated it as such, and yet I am reminding you, you have no power in my bedchambers." Frerin jumps on his feet.

Wren assumed there would be physical altercation, but she did not expect it to start so soon. She was planning to leave as soon as tempers rose. She also now knows their positions on the question of her pregnancy, and she understands that she needs to do something to protect herself. She cannot get tangled in the middle of their conflict. She is once again nothing but property that they are now unwilling to share. She can imagine them standing in front of each other with these exact stubborn, dark expressions when they were children and both wanted the same pony.

Wren is exhausted, although she has seemingly recovered from her ailment in Winter, she feels thinned. She feels like a broken doll, as if her joints ache although there is no pain. Recently both men in her bed have been more libidinous and demanding, and she has started refusing them, her body is not coping. And now she needs to grow a life inside her.

Despair and hatred spill onto her mind, she starts shaking, but then she wills herself to calm down. She does not possess the luxury to crumble down. She clenches her jaw, her mind whirls, and suddenly she just needs to leave the room. She can think of only one place to go. She turns around and rushes to the door, and that is when Frerin places the first blow. Thorin did not expect it, Frerin's fist falls on his cheekbone, blood bursts in a fan of scarlet drops, and after that Wren sees nothing of it. She is running through the passages.

* * *

Dis is sitting in her study, finishing putting down notes in the household register, when the door bursts open, without a knock, and the red haired woman of Men rushes in. She is pale and shaking, Dis jumps on her feet, she is immediately worried for either of her brothers, and Wren dashes to her and slams her body into Dis'. She is so slender that Dis feels no impact.

"Nadnur, nadnur," Wren sobs out, her delicate arms go around Dis' neck in a childish gesture, it feels like when Kili was a youngling and would hang on her when scared or upset. Dis sucks a breath in. _I am with child._ "Irakdashat, iraknâtha zu…" _It is your nephew or niece_. Dis' mind works fast. She knows of how the woman lives, and she wraps her arms around her. The red haired girl is crying desperately now. Her soft bright hair is pressed into Dis' nose.

"Where are they?" Dis has always liked Wren, the girl deserves respect. She is calm, industrious, and decorous. Dis could not wish a better woman for either of her brothers, and in the circumstances the arrangement Dis is aware of was of the best kind. Not anymore.

"They are fighting in Frerin's rooms," Wren's legs give in, and Dis seats her on a settee. "Forgive me… I have nowhere else to go..." Dis sees Wren's customary reserve crumble in front of her eyes. Dis picks up her hands, the redhead's fingers are long and cool, the pale narrow palms feel foreign in Dis' hands, but they are sisters. All women are. Dis is the daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, son of Dain, she makes decisions fast and has the will to execute them. She lifts her chin and gives Wren a firm look.

"This is when your troubles end, child. I will take care of you."

* * *

Wren is placed in separate rooms, adjoint to Dis', and neither Frerin, nor Thorin are allowed there.

An hour after she ran out of the room, once all furniture is broken in Frerin's chambers, Frerin has a dislocated shoulder, they are both bleeding extensively, though they used nothing but their fists and whatever they could pick up, Thorin is limping more than usual, Frerin hit him to the maimed leg with a chair, though he did not aim to do so, that would be an dishonourable blow. Thorin comes out as a victor, Frerin loses consciousness from his crushing blow with a fist into the jaw, and Thorin falls on his knees. He has not been in a fight for years, all his muscles ache and quiver, and he groans.

He goes in search of the woman, and a courtier, hardly managing to refrain from shying away from the King who is bloodied and whose clothes are torn, lets him know that the healer is in lady Dis' rooms. He limps there heavily, and that is when he sees courtiers and maids carrying trunks and other of Wren's belongings from Frerin's chambers to Dis'.

"You cannot see her, no one can, unless she asks. She has not asked for you," Dis is standing in front of him, her fists into her hips, and Thorin is painfully reminded of how terrifying their mother was in her rage. He does not even try to evoke his right as a King to make any orders, he knows that such words will be met by disdain and a scornful snort.

"Dis, I need to see her..."

"Why?" Dis uses the same trick as their mother used to, making one talk oneself into a verbal trap, no one can win in an argument like this.

"I need to talk to her."

"She has nothing to say to you. If she does, I will send for you." Thorin's temper rises.

"Do not forget whom you are talking to, namad. I am the king, I have the right..."

"In her chambers you have none." Dis interrupts him and makes a step ahead. It takes a lot of his will not to wince away from her burning dark eyes. "She is no Dwarf, you are not her King."

"She is carrying my child!" Thorin growls through bared teeth, but Dis only laughs into his face.

"She is carrying _her_ child, you are just the man who was there that night. And you are not the only one, are you, nadad?" Dis sneers venomously, and then scoffs and turns her back to him. She walks to her table and sits back to work on her register. "You are of no use for her right now, Thorin, and that is all I care about. For her to receive what she needs. Right now she needs peace and rest, and food, and herbs. I will see you at dinner." Dis dunks her quill into the ink bottle and goes back to her labour. Thorin understands that he lost.

* * *

nadad = (Khuzdul) brother

amad = (Khuzdul) mother

namad = (Khuzdul) sister


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And again, not the last chapter. What can you do? Blame my muses. **

* * *

Nine moons later Dis lets Thorin know that he may see Wren if he promises to behave. These are the exact words she uses, and she is giving him a stern look.

Wren is sitting in a cozy armchair in a parlour, it is full of books, little pots of herbs and myriads of some very feminine things he has no understanding of. The dress on her is velvet, of some demure warm colour, with soft mink fur on the collar. She looks well, better than he has ever seen her, her previously always pale cheeks are rosy, also perhaps from the slight unease that is splashing in her eyes. Her body, as much he can see, is the same, except for a round stomach, which she has protectively wrapped her arms around. Dis is sitting to the side, out of the hearing range, and is pretending to read a book.

There is a moment of silence between them, and he almost regrets coming here. For the last nine moons Dis has been announcing the same news at dinner every night. Wren is faring well, the babe is growing and healthy. They expect the parturiency to last sixteen moons. After a while, discomfort stops showing on Fili and Kili's faces upon these words, Wren becomes nothing but the vague memory, hidden, or hiding, somewhere in the halls, and everyone seems content with it. Thorin finds a constant mistress, she is a widow and is still mourning her husband in her heart, though the formal term of her bereavement has passed. She is also engaged in trade with Esgaroth and of immense help for him in some negotiations. She is often away, but they have enough nights to satisfy their hunger. Their relationships are amicable though detached, and Thorin thinks he has found the perfect solution.

Neither Thorin, nor Frerin have discussed what happened in Frerin's chambers. Frerin is not fond of mawkish palaver, Thorin finds it unnecessary. They are cold and polite towards each other, but sometimes Thorin thinks they should talk. He often thinks he is no longer young, wasting time in trite discord with his brother is foolish.

"Good evening, my lord." He has forgotten her voice, melodic, with a strange lilt to it, and suddenly something clenches in his chest. He is not used to the feeling, and he frowns. Her astute eyes are on his face, he remembers how perceptive she is, and he picks up from the table nearby the first object that is under his hand. It is a brush, and there is a single copper hair tangled in its bristles.

"How are you faring, my lady?" He does not like the sound of his own voice. He is also not looking at her.

"Quite well, thank you," laughter crawls into her voice, the old sarcastic shadow he is so familiar with. He looks at her askew. She has every right to mock him, he has asked to see her, and now he is fidgeting with her belongings. The look in her eyes is warm and soft, there is some new gentleness around her, and he sighs and sits on a settee near her armchair. He can see that she is aware of his discomfort and is graciously allowing him to gather his thoughts. It irks him more, and he folds his arms on his chest. This gesture only gains him a twitches of the corners of her red lips. "The healers think I am expecting a son."

He sees her hands splay on the round stomach, and she makes a firm round movement with her palms. He jerks his eyes up and looks into her face. He suddenly feels like running. He does not understand, he is a man, he is not used to the flurry of half distinguishable emotions in his head.

And then he thinks of children that appear in the Mountain more and more with each day, of boys running with wooden swords, girls following their parents to the market, and he chokes out, "How Dwarven is he to be?" His question is abrupt, and he wonders if he is wounding her by it. Her face remains calm, only her eyes change. He does not understand what it is he sees in them.

"It is hard to predict right now, my lord. I suppose I will find out next Spring," she looks down at her hands, and strokes the underside of her stomach, on her right side. Suddenly she scrunched her nose, as if in pain, and he is momentarily terrified, and then she giggles.

He is staring at her agape, and she notices his expression. Her lips twitch again, this time he is certain he is the target of her internal mockery. He remembers her sarcastic, dry sense of humour. A lot of memories seem to return now, for the first time in nine moons, now that they are speaking to each other.

"Do not fear, my lord, you will not have to deliver my son all alone on the floor of my parlour, he is just kicking," her voice is almost sing-song, but he cares little about her teasing. He suddenly understands it is a boy under her heart, and he has legs to kick.

They have a short and awkward, at least on his part, conversation about the latest news in Erebor, and then he excuses himself and leaves wishing her the best of health. Her eyes are sparkling with rather sharp mockery while he is hastily retreating, and he rushes out of the room. He felt he was obliged to visit her, and he felt he was acting decently and mercifully. Now he understands that she has no need in him, that he showed himself a blithering idiot, and now, instead of feeling self righteous and proud of his kindness he is muddled. She is no longer a faint memory of a terrified pallid girl, with her arms wrapped around her middle, announcing her parturition, and neither she is a feverish carnal fantasy he could not rid himself for nine moons. He just saw a capable woman, happy in her upcoming motherhood, who sees him as nothing but a nuisance.

* * *

Frerin misses Wren. Every night, unless he has had plenty of ale, he turns and shifts in his bed, not being able to find a comfortable spot, and even after nine moons he sometimes seeks her warmth under the covers, especially if half-asleep. He misses everything about her, returning to his chambers and seeing her at her desk, sharing meals with her, sharing bed with her. He has women occasionally, especially after a loud revel with a lot of mead and beer, but all he is left with in the morning is a bitter taste in his mouth and ache in his muscles.

He blames Thorin for his current misery, though he knows he is being unjust. It is easier this way, to repeat in his head that his brother took her away from him. Since the first day all those years ago when Frerin saw her in the market in Bree, she was laughing bantering with a vendour, choosing fabric for a new cloak, as she told him later that day when their bodies were cooling down after the fourth bout, or perhaps after the first week when he simply asked her if she wanted to travel together now, and she just nodded and smiled to him, ever since that time she has always been close, she was the constant, and Frerin ravelled in it. Frerin is not his brother, he lacks the will and perspective to raise a company to go on a quest and to reclaim a Kingdom, and Frerin is aware of it, but he has also always felt that the Dwarves of Erebor were deprived of their home. Wren was home for Frerin. For years her cool slender arms wrapped around him were the comfort and the shelter, and now Thorin took her away.

Frerin is a Dwarf, for him a child is sacred, but sometimes a thought that terrifies him and makes him disgusted with himself comes. If only the child were never to come, it could go back to what it was before. The child makes her Thorin's, at least by half, and that half is enough for her to never be his again. If there were no child, he could ask Wren to return, and this time Frerin would protect his home from invasion. He now understands he was a fool.

* * *

Dis lets Frerin know that he can visit Wren but she tells him that he cannot upset or worry Wren in any way. Frerin is immediately concerned that something is threatening Wren's health, and he solemnly nods.

He is stricken by how beautiful she is in her parturiency. He has always enjoyed her looks, he cares little how unattractive she is considered by Men and Dwarves alike, and everything he liked so much seems amplified now. Her lips are red, slanted amber coloured eyes are shining, and then he notices the extensive improvement in her chest area. He cannot tear his eyes off her cleavage, cleverly emphasized by a flirty fur collar, and she starts laughing loudly. He has missed her silver laugh.

"I finally have the bosom, the absence of which you have mourned for years, my friend," there is a new confidence to her tone, and he meets her laughing eyes.

"I have never mourned the absence of anything in you, ghivashel, though I cannot say any man in the same room with you now would argue that you should strive to be with child at all times. One can hardly look elsewhere," he falls back onto their usual light banter, it is surprisingly easy, and they smile to each other. He sits on a settee and looks her over. "You look well, Wren, I am glad bearing a half Dwarf does not exhaust you." She rubs the round stomach, and he remembers how strong and cool her narrow hands are.

"I am in excellent health, thank you. The healers say I am most likely carrying a son, it is a boy," her voice is soft and loving, she is addressing the life inside her, and Frerin suddenly understands that that is why he was invited to see her. He is being informed of the gender of the child. And that is all she needs from him. She is stroking the firm roundness, her features are soft and her eyes are almost dreamy, as if she is listening to something inside herself, and he understands none of it is ever to be for him again. He catches a childish thought in his mind, whether she even remembers he is in the room, and he feels irritated at himself.

They have a light and friendly conversation, and then he excuses himself and quickly retreats. She has a slightly confused expression on her face, as if she expected more from him, perhaps she thought he would want to touch the stomach, he saw husbands do it, but he needs to leave the room. He understands she is not to ever return.

* * *

Before her child is born, Thorin sees Wren one more time. He is looking for Dis, there are urgent news from Ered Luin, and he hastily walks into the backroom of the infirmary. His body clashes with someone, and the person makes a quiet gasp.

Thorin steps back and sees Wren. It has been another four moons since he came to visit her, her stomach is bigger but he notices that the rest of her body still looks the same.

She looks terrified, still breathless after their collision, and he stretches his hand to her to comfortingly touch her shoulder. She winces away from him, and he sees sheer animalistic terror in her eyes. And then he realises she is shaking, and her body is half turned from him, she is shielding her stomach. He assumes it is some sort of natural reaction from an expecting mother.

"It is alright, Wren, it is me," he hopes to soothe her agitation with soft tone, and then she lifts her eyes at him.

"Do not touch me," she breathes out, almost unconsciously, and he realises at that moment that it is the proximity to him that causes her state, and he thinks he can almost see hatred and disgust splashing in her irises. She is pale and takes a small step away from him. He has no words, his throat is choked, and then she hastily leaves the room.

* * *

Wren's son is born on a surprisingly hot, mid-May day, they both are healthy and the delivery goes without complications. The boy is large and heavy, almost black curls are already thick and long, and she and Dis are laughing at how they are sticking out after they are washed for the first time. He has bright blue eyes, but both women know that the colour will probably change in a moon. Midwives and Dis spend a lot of time in her rooms, years of friendship bond the women, and everyone wants to see the boy. He looks completely Dwarven and very, very irked. He is frowning and looks so grumpy even in his sleep that women cannot stop chuckling. He is also very beautiful, the features are very noble, and although none of the women speak of it, there is blood of the Kings running in his veins.

* * *

Three moons after the boy is born, it is time to choose a name for him. Thorin is invited to see the new mother and the child. When he comes, Frerin is sitting on a chair near Wren's bed, she is still advised to stay in bed most of the time, according to Dis, as brave and strong as she has been through the delivery, it took a great toll out of her body. The boy is lying on the sheets between them, and Frerin is shaking some bright toy above the child. The small plump arms flail, and Wren is laughing.

Midwives and lore keepers come, it is time to write the child into the Erebor register, and while the scribe is writing in a large volume, Thorin can see the line of fatherhood is left empty. He comes up to the bed. Wren gives him a tight smile, and he is looking at the babe. It is beautiful, strong and healthy, the black curls are scattered on the blanket, and suddenly the eyes open, and Thorin meets the irises that are so much like his.

"What is the name of the child, my lady?" The scribe asks politely in Khuzdul. And Wren throws a look at Dis.

"Othin," the princess says, and something pushes Throin to step closer to Wren.

He leans in, and her eyes meet his. He has forgotten the long lashes and the freckled nose. Her skin suddenly looks radiant to him, and he cannot stop looking. Her eyes are cautious, and he pushes himself to speak.

"If you would be so kind and generous, I would ask for the honour of your son bearing the name of Thror." He hears Dis gasp loudly behind him, she never loses her composure thusly, she did not even cry on her husband's funeral. Wren's lips are shaking, and he can see her throat move spasmodically. And then she nods.

"Thror, son of..." The scribe takes a pause and looks at Wren. Thorin notices how much her hands are shaking on the bed.

"Son of Frerin," Frerin's voice is low and there is menace in it. He has moved to the wall and is standing his arms crossed on his chest. There is silence in the room after that, only the sound of quill scraping at the parchment can be heard, and Thorin is looking at Wren. She is pale, and her hand twitches on the covers. He wonders if he should pick it up, but Dis leans in and wraps her arm around Wren's shoulders. The child wakes up and makes a funny irritated noise. Everyone is ushered out of the room, it is apparently feeding time.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: At this stage it is quite clear it is not a three chapter fic. What can I say? They all misbehave, and it takes time to fix the mess they are in.**

* * *

Rumours start. First neither Thorin, nor Frerin are aware of them, but soon even they realise that people talk about their sister and the red haired woman of Men living in her quarters. The first few moons of the child's life Wren was staying in the rooms adjoint to Dis', and no one thought anything of it, but now that the child is approaching a year mark, Frerin comes to Thorin's study. While Wren being his or Thorin's mistress was just not discussed but perceived as, if not common, but at least conceivable, the Khazad are intolerant towards association between two women, when neither of them in bonded to a man. It is frowned upon as it leaves less women to bear children. Given both Dis and Wren have born children already, and Wren is no Dwarf, intolerance towards such relationships is ingrained in the Dwarven mentality.

"May I, nadad?" Frerin sticks his head in Thorin's study, and it is the first time they speak privately since that day in Frerin's rooms. Thorin gestures him to come in, Frerin heavily sits down on a chair across the desk from his brother.

"Something tells me you are not here to talk about the barges from Esgaroth," Thorin puts his quill aside.

"No, we have discussed them enough at the council. I am here to talk about Dis… and Wren," his voice almost unnoticeably wavers around her name. Thorin nods, he has anticipated it. Frerin's jaw is set stubbornly. "We need to interfere. There are rumours." Thorin nods again. He has given it a thought, and he knows what his brother is to offer. He cannot understand why he cannot bring himself to agree on it. He is searching his mind and cannot find the answer.

"Something indeed has to be done," Thorin answers cautiously. "Talk to Dis, you have always had better relationships with her. Wren has to be moved into separate rooms." It is not what Frerin wants to offer, Thorin feigns nonchalance, Frerin is frowning.

"The child is written into the register as my son, they need to live with me."

"Dis will not agree," Thorin's voice is confident, although he has no idea. He just cannot let it happen. He can see irritation is rising in Frerin, and Thorin is painfully reminded of the day when he fought his brother truly for the first time. Before the aggravation with Wren he never felt the real hatred of physical altercation towards Frerin. That night he wanted to kill him.

"Dis will understand, she is the sister of the King, she has to know how it looks. They spend all their time together, and maids talk. And Wren has always been fond of such attentions," Frerin is trying to convince himself and hisbrother, Thorin thinks of the evening when he saw a woman leaving Wren's chambers.

"Talk to Dis, and… let me know what she says." Thorin does not want to discuss it any longer. He doesn't understand his own irritation and wants to close the subject.

* * *

Two weeks later his mistress comes back from a trip to Gondor, he has not seen her for three moons. He receives a note inviting him to her house, it is the custom between them. He is held back in negotiations for longer than expected, and finally he enters her parlour, shaking off the hooded cloak he wraps in to hide his identity. She is pouring wine in goblets, and he drops in an armchair. He is vexed and is trying to understand what it is that is nagging at his mind.

Suddenly for the first time in this liaison he tells his mistress of his family aggravation. He expects her to judge the situation the way any Dwarf would, to condemn the possible transgression in Dis' chambers and worry of what people will say of the royal family, and yet Arna, daughter of Oli starts laughing. There is a derisive note to it, and she is shaking her graceful head. The heavy braids bounce, and she topples a goblet of wine into her mouth. He is not used to such behaviour from her.

"What in Mahal's name do you find worth of frolics here, Arna?"

"Everything, to be honest. But mostly your blindness, my King," she is giving him a disdainful look. "You yourself see no fault in your thinking, and it entertains me." He feels offended, and rage is rising. She narrows her eyes at him. She has never behaved thusly. "Have you ever shared yourself with two women, my lord?" He has, and many times. He doesn't give her any answer, he can see she will say what she thinks without his participation. "And if you look back at those nights you will remember that you were indeed the third wheel there. Only because we are expected to bear children, it does not mean we cannot gain pleasure in association with other women. It is just not spoken about. And your sister is brave enough to be open about it. I have always admired lady Dis, but I am starting to think I have underestimated her..."

He slowly gets up on his feet, she is drinking from her refilled goblet. She is a redhead, has green eyes and even, pale skin. Her mouth is like petals of a rose, round full lips, she is a renowned beauty.

"I do not appreciate your brisk judgment..." He starts, and suddenly she gives out a loud short laugh.

"Of course you do not, my lord. You do not want to hear the truth." He cannot believe it, and she suddenly makes a step towards him. He feels as if the world has gone mad. "You do not want to think that your sister has managed something that neither your brother, nor you, the mighty King Under the Mountain were capable of. Finding peace and love with that girl." She uses the word that commonly designates a child, and Thorin winces away. Wren was no child, she was a passionate strong woman, he remembers her appetites, and the fire in her.

"You judge what you know nothing of," he sneers through his teeth. He regrets talking about it. Mahal knows, he now regrets even taking her as his mistress. Who would expect his decorous azyungal to suddenly turn into this shrew?

"Are you scheming how to get rid of me in your head, my lord?" Her tone is venomous and mocking, and he jerks. She knows him too well. "You are not hard to read. Since this is our last evening, my lord, I will tell you what I think." Running right now would be ridiculous, that would show weakness, but he is almost dreading what she might say. "Women of the Khazad have always preferred the company of each other because our men are nothing but dimwitted brutes. You are so rigid in your understanding and your opinions that even if we die out completely, you will still not blame yourselves. That poor child of Men that you and your brother kept in your rooms for your pleasures, my predecessor whom you were brutalising and abusing when a whim would come," he makes a few steps back from her, her words are like lashes of a whip, "Did you honestly think she received any pleasure from it? The poor child probably had nowhere to run. If lady Dis showed her some care and tenderness, naturally the girl developed feelings for her. She probably has not seen a glimpse of sincere affection in her whole life."

Thorin understand that Arna is drunk, and had been before he came over. It is a shocking revelation, that he can fail to notice the state of a person he previously spent so much time with and claims to be associated with.

And her words, though he understands that they are coming from a muddled mind, sink in, and he remembers the day he ran into Wren, in the second half of her parturition, he remembers unadulterated terror in her eyes and how she was shielding her unborn child from him. The child that he only went to see once, a blue eyed boy that is either his, or Frerin's.

He rushes to the door, grabbing his cloak from the chair he threw it in carelessly. Arna's derisive laughter is heard behind his back. He gets very drunk that night and spends hours crashing furniture and dishes in his chambers.

* * *

Another moon passes, Thorin is unaware of what results the conversation between Frerin and Dis yielded, when there is a knock at the door of his study, it is late, he has been working in it for two hours after returning here after supper. He allows his visitor entrance, and it is Wren.

He has not seen her since the day Thror received his name. He visits the child, along with maids he always finds Dis there, just slightly more rarely Frerin, never Wren, but he knows little of what happens in the nursery. The child is healthy and active, looks completely Dwarven to Thorin's eyes, and Thorin dislikes the strange unease he is flooded with when in those rooms.

"Allow me a conversation, my King," she is calm and collected, and he gets up and gives her a small bow. She takes a seat across his desk from him and folds her hands on her lap. "I will be direct, my lord. Your time is precious, and there is no use in tamahi karâth masarranul," _making runes dance_. It is a good expression, Thorin is fond of it himself. There is no use in wasting time in trite conversations. He forgot she spoke Khuzdul. She sighs and lifts her odd eyes at him. "I am aware of the grievances the rumours of our association are causing for your sister, my lord, and unlike her I do not think they should be ignored. I came to talk to you of how the current aggravation is to be annihilated. And before you say anything, I will tell you I have given it a thought and came to plead you to accept my offer. I would like to be allowed to reside in rooms adjoint to yours. That will pacify the gossip." His eyebrows hike up, and she takes another deep breath in. She is almost serene outwardly, he has forgotten how focused and intense she can be once she is endeavouring to achieve something. "I understand how such arrangement could interfere with your personal pursuits, but I assure you neither I, nor my son will be a bother, as well as I am certain lady Arna would be understanding if you explained the nature of the arrangement to her." Thorin jerks in his armchair. He was not aware that his, now former, liaison with Arna, was public knowledge. Even less so he expected Wren to know about it. She picks up an inexistent piece of lint off her skirt and continues in the same tone. He now understands she has come here with a conviction and hardly anything can stop her from executing her plan. He has forgotten her will. He thinks often of her now, after the incident with Arna. He is torn between his own memories of her, with her passion, her sense of humour and her perceptive judgement, and the image of terrified woman in the dim infirmary, as well as the pale girl holding her newborn child, and now he is looking at her as if for the first time. There is some sort of hidden force in her, she is in complete control of, and he takes a sharp breath in. "If my lord desires, I can talk to her myself. We have met only once, but perhaps an explanation from me..."

"Why not Frerin?" He interrupts her, shocked himself to hear his voice. She once again meets his eyes. Hers are cold and distant, and she presses her lips momentarily.

"He still desires me."

Arna's hysterical voice is ringing in his ears. _That poor child of Men that you and your brother kept in your rooms for your pleasures, my predecessor whom you were brutalising and abusing when a whim would come, did you honestly think she received any pleasure from it?_

Thorin is watching her angular unattractive face. Motherhood has not softened the features, she is still very slender, the simple demure dress is hardly flattering. He wonders what it is about her that makes his thoughts, and apparently his brother's, linger on her. He himself thought little of her through these moons, but now he worries that her presence in his chambers will change it. And then he thinks he owes her that much. She easily returns his studying look, the confidence in her is familiar, some strange defiance is new. There is a purpose in her now. There is a question in her eyes, he gives her a nod.

"I shall inform your sister," she is rising, and he follows. "There is an unused kitchen adjacent to the further bedroom in your halls, my lord. I have a cook and a maid, everything will be settled, and nothing will change in your mundane life." She gives him a decorous bow and turns to leave the room.

"Why are you staying in Erebor, Wren?" Before the child he thought she stayed for Frerin, he spent nights torturing himself with jealousy, he can now admit it. It was like venom spilling in his chest, they would lie intertwined in Frerin's bed and he would imagine burying his dagger into the heart of his sleeping brother. And then he would shy away from the possessiveness and hatred splashing in his heart. His arms around her would tighten, and she would nuzzle him in her sleep. Was Arna right, he suddenly asks himself? Has this whole time the woman in his bed been staying out of necessity? The world of Men is cruel and unfair, she was indeed better off in Erebor than on the road. The Khazad do not force women in intimacy, she was treated with respect, but now he wonders whether that was abuse even crueler than she would have had to withstand in a city of Men.

"I am staying for my son, my lord. He has the right to know his people."

"He is only half a Dwarf," he wonders why he seems to always say hurtful things, but she smiles to him. It is a cold derisive smile, as if she expected nothing else from him.

"The blood of Men is weak, my lord, Thror is a Khuzd." Her eyes soften when mentioning her son. "Just like his father."

Her steps are soft, and she closes the door behind her.

* * *

The orders are made, and the next day Thorin can hear courtiers and maids rush behind the doors leading to the inner rooms of his halls carrying her belongings. The noise is subdued, there are many rooms between his study and bedchambers and the rooms the red haired woman and her child are to occupy.

Dis does not come down for dinner. Fili and Kili look concerned, and Fili mentions that his mother does not seem in good health. Frerin is absent too, and after the meal Thorin heads to his chambers. He knocks and opens Frerin's door, and then a half empty bottle of ale smashes into the wall near his head. Thorin assumes Frerin has heard the news. He closes the door not wanting to listen to the stream of drunk obscenities his brother is pouring on him.

He spends the evening in his study, not a single letter is read, neither are treaties looked through. Thorin is organizing his thoughts.

* * *

At night loud screams wake him up from the restless half sleep that he has finally fallen into. He rolls out of his bed and rushes through the passages.

Wren is pressing her child to her chest, shielding herself and the screaming babe with the cot, the maid has squeezed herself into the corner, her eyes widened in terror, and Frerin is raging. Some odd bottles and jars are hurled into a wall, the shards shower the room, Wren's hands are covering the child's curly head. She is barefoot, and there is blood on the floor.

Something snaps in Thorin, an instinct wakes up faster than his mind, and he lands the plummet of his sword he was not aware he was holding in his hand on Frerin's nape. His brother's body heavily slumps on the floor, into the broken jars and for an instant the only sound in the room is the child's wailing and the hiccups of the maid. Wren moves first. She shifts the babe in her hands and comes up to the maid.

"Tova," her voice is firm and commanding, and the maid sobs, "Tova, look at me and listen to me." The maid's eyes are widened, and Wren gives her a loud slap across the face. The girl gasps and looks at the woman, her eyes much saner. "Listen to me. King Thorin will remove Prince Frerin from the rooms now, and you will clean all this mess. And then you will go to your room, and you will sleep as much as you want tomorrow. And, Tova," Wren's voice grows cold and menacing, and the girl shrinks, "You will never say a single word to anybody about what happened this night. Not a single soul, Tova. Look me in the eyes and say you understand."

"Yes, my lady," the girl's voice trembles, and tears started running down her face. Wren does not seem to notice.

She bends and opens a trunk by the wall. She pulls a clean blanket out of it and throws it over the thrashing child in her arms.

"It is alright, kuyluluh, it is alright," she is making soft shushing noises and starts walking towards Thorin's rooms. She switches to Khuzdul. "The noise is over, my life. Mother is with you. Be peaceful, my life. Mother is with you." She disappears in the rooms, Thorin can still hear the boy's loud crying.

* * *

He drags Frerin's unconscious body to his chambers and drops him on the floor. Waking up on the stone floor, with excruciating pain in his head and preferably in all his extremities, will be the first of the retributions Frerin is to face.

Wren is sitting on Thorin's bed, the boy is not crying anymore, he is being fed. Wren is cradling his head on her arm, the blanket is draped around both of them, and the boy is still making occasional whimpering noises between vigorous suckling.

"We will need your bed for this night, my lord. The settee in your study is too small for both of us," her tone is mundane and even, and she goes back to gazing at her son, her long delicate fingers brushing at his temple. She expects Thorin to leave.

He sits on the bed near her and watches the boy eat. The ears, large and pink, very Dwarven, are moving rhythmically, and then he falls asleep still holding her breast between his plump bright lips. She arranges him among Thorin's pillows and only then pulls up the collar of her nightdress onto her shoulder.

Wren is standing over the sleeping form of her son, and Thorin suddenly clearly sees that the woman and the boy have no one in the world but each other. He gets up, comes up to her, and grabbing her hand he pulls her out of the room, leaving the door half open between the bed chambers where her son sleeps and the dressing room he led her to.

She lifts her eyes at him, frowning in confusion, and he cups her face.

"I will care for you and your son, Wren." She blinks, the crinkle between her brows deepens, and he can see how white her usually red lips are. "And now you need to cry."

"I do not understand..."

"Wren, you and your child have just been threatened, you need to cry it out. You are too calm."

"Thror is unharmed, and I am as well." Her tone is almost stubborn.

"I am not talking about harm, Wren, no one can go through this and stay that collected." She tries to move away from him, and he does not let her. "This is the last time I am imposing my will on you, but you need to cry, or you will break. If not tomorrow, then later. No one can carry that much burden." She presses her hands into his chest to push him away, and he grabs the back of her head, pulling her in. Panic is rising in her eyes, but he has seen the same wild expression in the eyes of those who has gone through their first battle. She is at the end of her endurance. "Wren, you were scared, you felt you had no one to ask for help, you had no one to protect your son." Her lips are starting to tremble, and then her whole body quakes. He can see her teeth sink into her bottom lip, there is blood. She is in shock, and he grabs her around her middle with the other arm. If Arna was right, his proximity will stir Wren out of her stupour. The small woman in his arms thrashes, and the first sob falls off her lips. "You have lived in the Mountain for years, Wren, and it is still not your home. There is not a single person of kin for you here, except your defenseless babe." She is thrashing harder, and her nails graze his cheek. He grabs the back of her head firmer, she is still holding on to the leftover control over herself. "You stayed for the sake of your son, and everyone has forgotten about you. No one cares, even Dis is now gone, Frerin could come into that room and take your child away, and no one would care. He could have overpowered you, spread you on the floor and force himself onto you..." That is when she breaks, her mouth opens, and he presses his palm over it, not to wake up the boy. She is now fighting, battering him and clawing, and her screams and growls of rage are muffled by his hand. He feels blood trickling down his cheek from the deep scratches she is leaving on his face, he can feel abundant hot tears on his hand over her mouth, and he wraps his arm around her and pulls her into him.

She slows down half an hour later, he has forgotten how strong she is, he is surprised by how exhausted he feels. They are on the floor, and she is crying, her hands fisted around handfuls of his tunic. The fabric is wet on his chest, and he gently strokes her shoulder.

"Wren, come," he opens his arms inviting her in, but not forcing her into it, and she slides on his lap, hiding her face in his neck. He does not wrap his arm around her, instead he picks up her hand and rubs the knuckles with his thumb. "Everything I said is false, Wren. No one will take away your son, you have my word." Her body jerks, and she presses into him harder. "I give you my word of honour. I will do what you ask of me and never go against your will and your desires. I give you the word of Thorin Oakenshield. No one will ever force you into anything, Wren." She is quietly sobbing.

"Please, hold me," her voice is raspy from the screams he has been muffling, and he embraces her, she is so slender he can hardly feel her. He is rocking her from side to side, and soon she falls asleep. He picks her up and puts her down near her son, pulling his own covers over her.

He is washing his face in bath chambers, the water in the basin is pink from his blood, and he realises his hands are shaking.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorin spends the night in the dressing room, on the floor, his back pressed to the doorframe, so that he can from time to time throw a glance on two sleeping forms on his bed. By dawn he feels his mind has come to a balance, he has arrived to certain decisions and feels he knows how to act.

He comes up to Wren and gently touches her shoulder. He regrets robbing her of sleep, but some measures are to be taken. She silently opens her eyes and is looking at him calmly. He points at her feet, they are cut, blood has dried on the soles, there are stains of the sheets, and he gestures to her inviting her to climb onto his arms. He can see the internal struggle in her but then she nods. He leans in and picks her up. Her body jolts from the contact, and he wonders whether it is any man she feels repulsed by or it is just him.

He seats her on the bench in the bath chamber and starts tending to her feet. There are shards of glass buried deep in her skin, he wipes the blood and removes them. Some of the cuts start bleeding again, he applies balm and wraps them in clean strips of linen he makes out of bath sheets. The whole time he does not lift his face, he does not know what expression her face bears, but he can see her tight fists on the bench.

Suddenly a narrow cool hand cups his jaw, and she lifts his face. Tears are running down her face, and have been for a while. The collar of her nightdress is wet, some stains from the content of the jars and bottles Frerin broke yesterday have splashed on the fabric, there are smears of blood, and Thorin closes eyes in shame. Her fingers are stroking his jaw, and then the second hand joins. The fingertips, and Thorin is suddenly reminded of the feeling of the first drops of rain on one's skin, run on his face and he understands she is tracing the scratches she left last night. He opens his eyes and meets hers.

The moment is piercing and pure, the moment of understanding between two people who are scared and alone, and regretful of their actions, and she gives him a shaky smile, while another pair of tears is drawing streaks on her pale cheeks. He decides that hiding his would be dishonourable, and he feels the salty taste on his lips.

And then she hastily wipes hers, and her usual composure is back. He goes back to tending to her feet. Soon she returns to the bed chambers, and after a few instants he hears the demanding whimpers from her child.

* * *

Thorin leaves the chambers and goes to his brother. Frerin is bent over a sink in his bath chambers, the content of his stomach pouring into it, his body convulsing. Thorin sits in a chair in Frerin's parlour, waiting for his brother. The rooms are unkempt, and then Thorin realises that there is a surprising amount of Wren's belongings scattered around it. There are books, a corner of a shawl is peeking from a trunk, there are her drawings scattered on Frerin's table. Thorin knows she draws, he never cared, but he remembers Dis praise Wren's skill.

"Is she unscathed?" Frerin's voice is coarse, he is standing in the doorframe, barechested, water running down his hair and neck. Thorin assumes Frerin has just poured a bucket of cold water over himself.

"She is. And the babe as well. She cut her feet on glass, but otherwise she is." Frerin is studying the scratches on Thorin's face.

"And those?"

"She needed to cry. She was too calm." Frerin frowns.

"What did you do?"

"I threatened her, it did not take much. She was terrified." Frerin rubs his face with the towel hanging around his neck.

"I do not remember much… What are these from?" He points at his own face. All right side is covered in angry red scratches.

"You bashed your face to the floor. After I knocked you out." Frerin nods and sits on a bench in front of his brother. They are quiet, none wants to start the conversation, and either hardly knows what is to be said.

"She is not to live with me, Frerin." Thorin makes the first step. He knows he has to, and he knows Frerin never will. "It is just to stop the rumours. She asked me herself, and I allowed. Dis needs to be protected." Frerin is looking at his hands, his fingers intertwined, elbows on his knees.

"She did not come to me..."

"She didn't," Thorin gives a little nod, though Frerin is not looking at him. "She just wants the rumours to stop. Nothing else. She is doing it for Dis."

"I just want her back," Frerin's sudden words are hanging above them like a ring of pipeweed smoke. "She loved me then… At the beginning… I want her back..." Frerin sounds like the child Thorin remembers.

"She is not the same, Frerin. The woman you brought to Erebor is gone." The thought feels like a lightning in Thorin's mind, suddenly bringing clarity. Frerin still sees the same girl, and he, Thorin, has he ever had a good look?

He remembers the conversation with Dis while Wren was expecting and he was still demanding his sister to let him see Wren. _You do not even know anything about her to claim to want to help her! Do you know what she loves, what she values, what she is afraid of?_

Now Thorin knows what Wren values, it is only her son, nothing else seems to matter to her. He remembers slender arms wrapped around the babe, blue veins under pale skin, a frail exhausted body and an unbreakable will. And he knows her fears now. She is afraid of men around her, of him and his brother, of their masculinity and their force, of their desires, of their greed and their hunger. And he does not know the answer to the third question Dis asked him then. Is there love in Wren's heart towards anything but her son?

"We are at fault here, Frerin, you and I." Thorin knows Frerin will never see it that way but Thorin needs to say it. Frerin will never be able to see beyond his desires, not many Dwarves can. The Khazad know what is right, what is honourable, what they desire and what they will do. Neither of them can imagine or accept that the path of others, if it differs from their ways, can be understood and respected. But Thorin is old, and Thorin has seen life, and death, and loss, and grief. And Thorin loves.

In his heart lives love that is not of Khazad, it is not the fire and not the greed, he does not desire to possess, to protect, to hide from others. When small hands were grasping his tunic, delicate elegance shoulders were shaking before his eyes, his heart was bleeding of a thousand wounds. All Thorin wants is for those eyes to never shed tears again.

"What is our fault?" There is stubbornness in Frerin's voice, but he is trying to suppress it. Frerin regrets last night. But not the fear and pain he inflicted, Thorin understands, but the wrongness of his action. Frerin now knows he had no reason for jealousy, and he wants to ask for forgiveness. Thorin rises, he does not want to give his brother a chance to ask pardon.

Everything changed for Thorin last night, but he knows there is no way to explain it to Frerin. He finds it almost amusing, that was perhaps how Wren felt all through these years, that is if he now speaks a different language.

"You threated a woman who bore either your son, or your nephew, and you lost control over yourself. You indulged in ale and behaved like an Orc under their 'vitality drink'," Thorin pronounces slowly. "She will never forgive you. She will always be afraid of you. As for me, I am just her King. And your brother. And her son's kin." Thorin feels as if he is talking to a child or a foreigner, he is using the words he knows will be understood, while inside he knows how little of the meaning is passed over to the other. Frerin drops his head. For him the matter is closed and the decision is made. Thorin knows how little Frerin will ever be able to understand.

* * *

Thorin comes to Dis' chambers, her maid informs him the mistress is still ailing, but he still asks to see her. He is the King, and the maid rushes into the inside rooms.

Dis is lying on a low settee, furs and covers wrapped around her. Thorin sits at her feet, dropping his suddenly heavy head on his hands. There is only one light in the room, and in the dimness Throin feels his sister's astute eyes study his face.

"What did you do?" Dis' voice is full of disgust and cold hatred, and Thorin meets her eyes. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing, namad. Nothing happened." Dis hisses an obscene swearing, and Thorin wonders whether she is pondering using the wide dagger she always has clasped to her belt. Thorin is giving his sister an open direct look. "Do the two of you love each other?" Dis drops her eyes, and then nods.

"It is good..." Thorin nods several times, and then he realises Dis is moving on the settee. He expected a dagger, but it is a fist. It meets his cheekbone, she lunges her whole weight at him, and he allows. Blows fall.

"Do not mock me, swine!" She is raging, he has had a sleepless night. He rolls away from her, she is too blind from fury to strategize her fight.

"I am not!" He lifts his hands to halt her. "I am not, namad. If it is what you two desire, I will help you. She asked to live in my rooms, and she can, but you know where the doors are." Dis stops in her tracks, and her eyes are roaming his face. "I did not take her from you, namad. She is not a thing to take. You live how you want. I am your brother, I will help you."

He is withstanding the inspection of Dis' dark eyes, and finally she lowers her lifted fist and heavily sits on the settee. She is shaking her head, stubbornly fighting her emotions, and Thorin stays on his spot, giving her time to take herself under control and protect her dignity.

"Frerin will stay away now too," Thorin adds in a soft tone.

"Frerin should marry," Dis' tone is sharp, and after a few seconds of considering this sudden idea Thorin understands she is right.

"He should." Thorin makes a few slow steps and sits near Dis. She is shaking, and then after giving him a look from the corner of her eyes she chuckles. It is joyless, almost bitter, but Thorin picks up her hand and pats her knuckles with his other palm. Skin is broken on them, and he notices the feeling of a warm trickle of blood going down his cheek. He will need to wash his face before leaving Dis' chambers.

"She is not mine," Dis speaks in Khuzdul. The statement is grave, so much more meaning is embedded in the throaty consonants of their native tongue. Thorin looks at her in astonishment. "Never was, never will be. She is the first woman who called to me that way, but… She did not answer. Her eyes are only for her babe." She pulls out her hand from Thorin's and wipes her palm on her skirts. It is not disgust, it was clammy. Thorin assumes it takes a lot of effort to keep herself under control at the moment.

"She is not mine either," Thorin gives his sister the peace of mind she needs. She is silent for a few moments, and then he sees her exhale slowly.

"If she wants you, she can have you. Or Frerin."

"But she does not. And nothing good would come from her returning to Frerin." Thorin is now pondering what his sister offered earlier. "He needs to wed."

"He does," Dis agrees. He chuckles. Their mother used to play the same trick on their father. He always thought the ideas and decisions were his. Thorin looks at his sister askew, she catches the teasing in his eyes, and she starts shaking her head. She does not wish to share his smile, but she cannot resist, and soon they are laughing quietly together.

"We are fighting over a woman," she sounds disbelieving, and he nods. They sit together for several long minutes. Then she gets up and claps her hands.

"I think my ailment is over, nadad."

"I am glad to hear it, Dis. You were frightening your sons."

"Once they wed, they will understand," she snorts derisively, and he chuckles again.

"No Dwarf can understand a woman, namad."

"It is because they never ask for explanation." Dis is already moving around, lighting lamps, and her words have just stricken Thorin as a thunderbolt and made him come to halt in the middle of her rooms.

* * *

Scratches and cuts heal, and life returns to its usual ways. Wren and her son occupy the rooms in his halls, and the rumours stop. Thorin suspects that more respect is now shown to the woman of Men. The child is growing, and she returns to her responsibilities in the infirmary.

Thorin visits the nursery every second day but he never sees Frerin there. Wren is always in a chair in the corner reading a book. Sometimes Dis is there, she is playing with the child, her and Wren chat amicably but there is hidden melancholy in their voices. Thorin knows they share meals sometimes, and the infirmary takes a lot of their time.

Another year passes, and on a warm Spring day Frerin weds a daughter of an old family. The bride is a renowned beauty, the dowry is large, but she could choose a husband without it. Her temper is even, manners impeccable, she comes from Ered Luin with her household, and the family secrets in mead making. She takes the place to Frerin's right at all meals, and sometimes Thorin guesses their fingers are intertwine under the table. The last seat at the dinners, previously occupied by Wren is soon to be taken by Kili's new bride, and Erebor is buzzing in anticipation of the second wedding in the royal family.

* * *

More moons pass, it is an evening like any other. Thorin is slightly irritated, a light headache is dully nagging in his temples, it has been raining for the last few days. It is a day when he habitually would visit the nursery at the back of his halls, and he shortly wonders whether he should postpone it till the next day. But he completes the matters of the day, and he tells himself he has no excuse. He is walking through passages, some stray thoughts rushing through his mind, and pushes the door into the nursery. It is empty, and then he notices the maid on the floor. She is picking up the toys.

"They are in Lady Wren's parlour." Thorin nods and walks to the other room. He knocks and is invited in.

Wren is sitting on the carpet with the boy, who now waddles around. He grows faster than children of the Khazad but still much slower that his peers among Men. He is pronouncing the first words now, just one syllable, rarely two, and tends to hold on to walls, but he is sturdy and strong.

At the moment he is standing without holding to his mother's hands, her fingers still splayed in the air to catch him if he tumbles, and she is laughing. Heavy velvet skirts are scattered on the floor, her delicate ankles and feet in small leather slippers peeking from under them.

"Good evening, my lord," she greets him from the floor, and he suddenly cannot breathe. Sharp pain shoots under his sternum, and he takes a spasmodic breath in, with a loud gasp. The room swims before his eyes, and he is keeling. At the next moment a pair of strong hands is supporting him, and she is calling the maid.

He is seated on a divan, his back to the door, and she leaves for an instant to pass the child to the maid. He is shortly astonished by her even lively tone, and then he realises she is concealing his weakness from the maid. The door closes, and she is immediately in front of him. Her fingers deftly unbutton his collar, he is jerking it, and a glass of water is pressed to his lips. He is taking greedy gulps and feels her strong narrow palm to rub his back between shoulder blades. The pain has ebbed by then, and he closes his eyes taking the first unobstructed breaths in.

"Thorin?" Her voice is soft, and he wonders if she has ever before addressed him by name. He opens his eyes, her amber irises are in front of him, and cool fingers lie on his throat. She is checking his pulse.

"It has passed. I… feel better," he finishes the glass, she puts it on the table nearby and sits near him on the divan.

"Good. You are still pale though. Perhaps a few more minutes, my lord." She now picks up his wrist and is pressing her fingertips over the heartbeat there. She is counting, her lips are moving , but no sound comes out.

"Is it because I am old?" She lifts her eyes at him, and he notices laughter dancing in them.

"Perhaps. Or you have forgotten to eat. Or have not slept for a few nights properly." She curls a corner of her lips, and then adds, "My lord."

"I have eaten and slept quite well for the last few days," he is wondering if he just wants her to say he is an old Dwarf now. Perhaps he wants to know if she sees him as such. There is a lot of silver in his hair these days.

"Do you still train with your warriors, my lord?"

"Occasionally." He does, at least thrice a week. Old habits die slowly. He still sleeps with his dagger under his pillow, and even after all these years no one can wield Orcrist better than him.

"It is probably just weather, there has not been a single sunny day in the last fortnight," she lets go of his wrist and folds her hands on her lap. He is studying her face, she is not lowering her eyes.

"Are you content, Wren?" He does not know where the question comes from. But how does one understand if one does not ask for explanation?

"Quite so, my King," even in most innocent answers of hers he seems to hear hidden mockery. It is not venomous, just a slight jab of her sharp humour, and he sighs. His head has seemingly stopped spinning, and he has no reason to hold her near, but he just wants to sit this way for a bit longer. She does not seem to object. He wonders if he is imagining a shadow of a smile in the corners of her lips.


	7. Chapter 7

Another three years pass in everyday matters, until in early Spring, while snow still covers Erebor Valley, scandal ensues in the Royal Halls. Thorin finds out from Frerin who comes to see him in his study. Apparently by then it has been going on for a few months and had not been discovered until one day Fili's wife was found in bed with another woman. Marital infidelity is unheard of it in Dwarven families, as libidinous as they are before the vows are taken, both men and women are expected to be loyal in their marriage. Obviously there are always exceptions out of the rules, but the crime on Herta, daughter of Billar is thrice as grave. She is young and capable of bearing children, her attentions are not to be distracted from her husband, she is the wife of a Prince, and her lover is a Dwarven maiden as well.

Frerin is sitting in the chair in front of Thorin, his fingers locked before him, elbows pressed to his knees. "Were that just lust it could be forgiven..." Frerin's voice is hollow, "But she confronted him… She said they loved each other… That she is going to leave Erebor with her lover…" That is two fertile women less in Erebor. Fili's marriage is arranged, one of the first that took place in Erebor, she is of very old family, but it was clear from the start his heart was not into it. Thorin sends Frerin away and goes to talk to Dis.

She is pale, bedraggled, and he finds Wren in her parlour. The redhead is sitting on the settee near Dis, stroking her hand. Dis refuses to talk to Thorin, she is too tired. The arguments have been going on for hours, Herta has locked herself in their bedchambers at the moment, Fili is in the training yard, destroying another dozen of dummies, and Dis disappears in her bedroom chambers, shaking her head.

Thorin is left with Wren in the room, and he heavily lowers himself in an armchair. She is quiet, her eyes on the window to her left, and he studies her delicate jawline.

"Did she want to be discovered?" He needs to talk to someone, he feels strange heaviness behind his ribs again, it has been bothering him recently. Wren turns her head, and he catches slight surprise in her slanted eyes. She did not expect him to speak to her about it.

"I would assume so. Since they have been concealing their affair for several moons now, I doubt they would have been reckless enough to be caught."

"Why not just run away?" Wren gives him a sad smile.

"And go where? Two women, in the wild, alone. They cannot go back to their families. Even if they both are capable fighters and can protect themselves, they would not be able to find any work in any city. They are not men." Thorin never considered what it is like for women. "In Dwarven cities woman's job is to bear children, in the cities of Men a woman with no husband is either a help or a mistress. Herta is an excellent blacksmith, but she would not see hammer in the city of Men." Thorin is listening, and she sighs heavily. "Expose their liaison and put Fili before the fact… They had no other way. This way you will pay them generously to hide this opprobrium, and they will have enough gold to live on their own the way they want."

"Will I?" Thorin is asking with a sincere surprise, and she nods.

"Of course you will. You are the King Under the Mountain. You will pay them, and let them leave, and soon everyone will forget about the strange behaviour of the Princess, and perhaps with time news will come of her death, and Fili will marry again, this time to the one he chooses himself." Her tone is even and mellow, and suddenly he starts laughing loudly.

"I should take you to my negotiations with the Elves, Wren, you are a marvel! You will tell them what to do, and still manage to not offend them." She gives him a look from the corner of her eye.

"Have I offended you, my lord?" She knows the answer to her question, one corner of her lips curls up. The gesture is almost flirtatious. Something stirs in him, it is not quite desire but he wants to move closer, perhaps touch her hand, and he remembers the faint smell of lilacs from her skin.

But he has learnt his lesson. He reminds himself of how her body jolts when a man would occasionally touch her, he can still see it if he runs into her in the infirmary. She has her study in the wing where the midwives work, but if a husband comes with his wife, Wren keeps her distance. Once in a passage Thorn ran into Wren talking to a maid, when a courtier rushed by, and his elbow brushed at hers. He saw white even teeth sink into her bottom lip, the slender body jerked, and she took a step back.

"Tell me, Wren," his tone is warm and even, and he looks into her eyes to show her that his question is not a judgement and not mockery, "You had liaisons with women. How certain are you Herta will not change her mind?" Thorin thinks of the women he has had before, of those he shared with other Dwarves, they were of Men or Dwarven widows, those were arrangements of passion, lust, primitive physical desire, consensual from all participants. Thorin knows of married couples who bring others to their bed, mostly other couples, almost never wives without their husbands, but he knows how careful they always are. The question of doubtful fatherhood is never to arise. There are too few Dwarves in Arda to risk it. Frerin said Herta loved the other woman. How much does such love have to compare to the one between a man and a woman?

"She has found her One, my lord. It is not always a man." Her answer is soft but decisive, and he is giving it a thought. "I know many think such notion outdated, but I do believe a Dwarf's heart chooses only once. And as it often happens in the matters of heart, such choice isn't always the wisest." She gets up and heads to the door, when he stops her with a quiet question.

"And you, Wren, do you think your One is a woman too?" She is standing her back to him, he can see the tension in her shoulders, and then she turns around.

"I have only taken women as my lovers because my heart could not belong to them. I knew I was in no danger to lose my head. A man had a chance to absorb me, rule me, and I couldn't let it happen. And then Frerin came..." Thorin cannot understand where this moment of openness from her comes from, but he is almost holding his breath not to scare it off. "And again, afterwards I had women when I wanted warmth, and understanding, and pleasure, but wanted to escape the danger of letting someone in. Sometimes I just wanted a considerate lover… Someone who..." She realises her own words, and suddenly flaming blush spills on her cheeks. Just a second ago he was talking to a calm mature woman, and now he sees an embarrassed girl in front of him. He finds it almost funny, she seems increasingly worried that he would take her words as criticism of him as a lover. He suddenly remembers she has hardly reached the end of her third decade. Even for the world of Men she is still young. It is her perceptiveness, her mind, her unbendable will that deceive, but he is looking at slender hands intertwined in acute embarrassment. She excuses herself and rushes out of the room.

Thrion spends another half an hour sitting in silence, pondering the words of the woman who lives in the back rooms of his halls and whose child he comes to visit three times a week.

* * *

Later that moon Fili and his wife leave Erebor, seemingly together, he heads to Iron Hills with envoys, she separates from him on the way. Thorin has paid her generously, and at the end of negotiations when the blonde woman was leaving his study he wished her luck and happiness, and he noticed that his tone was sincere, and so did she. She looked at him, deep purple shadows lying under her bright blue eyes after so many sleepless nights, and she gave him a low bow. He returned it and watched the door close behind her.

Dis keeps on praising his wisdom in solving the problem, and he chuckles. The evening when Fili leaves the Mountain, Thorin goes to Wren's rooms, he spends his usual ten minutes there listening to the maids and the new tutor for the boy who tell him about the child's life and learning, and he watches the boy play on the floor. Thorin is not blind, he can see the astonishing semblance between himself and the boy. The hair is the same colour, the same profile, the same line of lips, the same colour of eyes. The disposition is almost comically identical as well, the boy has a slightly haughty expression on his face at all times, only changing into warm and loving smile when he is talking to his mother, he is moody and talks little, though he is smart and capable, and if there were less semblance between Thorin and Fili to remind one how blood works in uncles and nephews, one could assume that… Thorin stops himself from such thoughts, but they come more and more often these days. Previously while it was just a plump babe in a cot, Thorin cared little, but these days he can see a miniature replica of himself in front of his eyes, a boy who makes judgements, discusses battles with his teacher and draws armour on parchments. He has inherited his mother's abilities for drawing, and Thorin hears him ask his tutor about ridges on the swords and the shape of a plummet.

Thorin leaves and does not come back for two weeks, he doesn't like the feeling of unease from seeing small hands of the same shape as his, covered in dark spots from graphite, to depict a child and a small slender woman on a sheet of parchment. The spot on the other side of the boy in the picture is empty, and Thror, son of Frerin pauses and adds a pony to the small family he is drawing.

* * *

Nightmares come again. Wren is overtired, and when she is, she wakes up with a scream, cold sweat between her shoulder blades, and she is biting the pillow letting the sobs shaking her body pass. There has been a pandemia of influenza in Erebor, since she has experience in treating the sick, she was asked to help in the infirmary. She has not slept properly for three weeks, and now she was sent to her rooms for rest. She will not be needed there again, the disease is stepping back, there are no more sick arriving.

Wren throws a robe over her nightdress and leaves for the kitchen behind her halls. There is no fire in the over, and she tries again, and again, but it would not start. Her fingers are cold, disobedient, and suddenly something snaps in her. She sinks on the floor and starts crying loudly. No one will hear her here, Thror has been moved to his own room, further down the passage, the maid sleeping in an adjoint one. The King is several halls away, behind thick walls, and sudden rage overcomes her. She grabs the nearest mug and smashes it into the wall. She shies away from what she'd done an instant after the shards fly in all directions, she whimpers and rushes to take a broom to picks up the pieces.

"Good evening, my lady," the King's raspy voice from the door makes her jump up, and she presses her hands over her mouth to suppress a panicked scream. He is barefoot, dishevelled and looks very displeased. He is shielding his eyes from the light of the gaslamp she brought into the kitchen, and she feels acutely embarrassed. She also realises she has been exceptionally foolish, if all those moons ago he heard Frerin in her bedchambers he indeed could hear her hollering just now. She realises her face is red and puffy, it does not take much effort to guess she has cried, and the floor is covered in pieces of clay. She is mumbling her apologies for waking him up and is hastily brushing the litter from the floor.

"You have not woken me up. I come here often at night." He comes in and sits at the table. She is worried he will cut his feet. "We should have tea, Wren..."

"The fire wouldn't start..." She mumbles, and he heavily gets up with an irritated groan and starts working the firestriker. Soon the fire rises, first in cozy crackles, and then a low roar in the chimney. He puts the kettle on, and she is watching him in astonishment. She has never seen him doing mundane chores.

They have tea in silence, on the opposite sides of a large kitchen table, and then he finishes, puts his cup into the sink and leaves with a quiet soft 'Good night.' She is following his wide figure with her eyes until he disappears around the corner.

The same repeats two night later, she has a nightmare, and finds him already in the kitchen. They have tea together, again in silence, and it becomes some sort of their secret pastime. Sometimes Wren comes, and he is not in the kitchen, she still has tea and returns to her chamber. Sometimes she can see he has not slept well when he visits Thror, and if that night she did, she knows he spent the night in the kitchen alone.

* * *

One night he doesn't find her in the kitchen and he praises himself for bringing a book with him. He is reading, it is close to dawn and he knows a maid will soon come, when she appears. He lifts his eyes and understands something is wrong right away. She is pale, her eyes are burning feverishly, and she steps close to him and grabs his hand. He is shocked by how hot her usually cool hand is.

"I am sick, I think I have the influenza..." She sways and he grabs her around her body. She is sinking on the floor. "I need to be taken to the infirmary… Thror can catch it..." Her eyes are rolling back, and he is rushing to the infirmary, her body almost has no weight in his arms.

* * *

The healers tell him there is hardly any hope for her to recover. The influenza stayed in her body longer without revealing itself, she is of Men, her body concealed it for longer, but she is less resilient and they had several deaths among Dwarves as well. Thorin knows that Dis was allowed to see her some time ago, and arrangements were made regarding the child. They do not allow anyone see her, and the healers let Thorin know that she has been delirious for the last two days. She doesn't recognise faces or surroundings.

A young healer asks for his audience, and he allows the Dwarf to come in. Brali, son of Drol introduces himself with a low respectful bow. He tells the King that he has been in amicable relationships with Lady Wren through her years of service in the infirmary and that she was supporting him when he was just starting his path of a healer. Thorin can see how embarrassed and uneasy the Dwarf is feeling but after collecting himself, muscles rolling on his jaw, the young healer directly meets the King's eyes.

"She is asking for you, my King. All the time… First while she was lucid, she did not want anyone to see her, it is obvious, the influenza can be passed… But since the delirium started it is all that she has been saying... She is crying, sometimes screaming, her lungs are affected, and there is a lot of pain, but she keeps on calling you… As a healer I would advise against it, but as her friend… She still has lucid moments, rarely now, but your presence might be her last consolation…"

Thorin wonders how much will power it took the Dwarf to dare to have such conversation, and he rises. The healer jumps on his feet as well.

"I will see to it immediately, honourable healer. Perhaps you should come after a few minutes, so that your superiors did not know of your participation in this." The healer gives the King another low bow, and Thorin leaves him behind and strides into the infirmary.

* * *

The arguments with the healers take a while, and he knows someone was sent to his sister to talk him out of this unreasonable step, but they have no power to stop him. He enters the room, the gauze canopy surrounds the bed, and he moves a flap aside and takes the chair near her bed.

He is overwhelmed with one piercing sensation. It is terror. She is thinned, pale, it looks to him as if her skin is translucent, blue veins are a map under her skin, all the angular features have sharpened, and it is as if he almost cannot see the woman he loves in her. She is delirious, moaning weakly, she probably has no strength to thrash anymore, and just as the healer said, his name is repeated again and again. Some other words are there, there is 'please' and 'son,' several words in Rohirrim he doesn't know.

He has to wait for an hour for her to return to her senses at least partially, the eyes lose mad expression, he has been holding her hot dry hand through this whole time, and she blinks. The eyes focus on him, and he can see she recognises him.

"Wren..." He has been watching her die in front of his eyes for an hour, and now, when perhaps the last short moment between them comes, he has no words.

"Thorin..." He guesses what she says by the movement of her chapped lips, she has no voice, and then the eyes close.

He stays by her side for the rest of the day and the night, he is either holding her hand, or just sitting in the chair. The thought that does not leave him in peace is that the blizzard of emotions and thoughts in his mind is something he has never experienced before. He has faced loss and grief before, there are people in his life he loves fully and irrevocably, he has his siblings, nephews, he had a family when he was a child, he has friends, King or not, Balin and Dwalin are his friends, and yet the terrifying ache and helplessness tearing at his mind and seemingly even his body at the moment cannot be compared to anything he has felt before.

He leaves her rooms when healers bring Dis. In the infirmary parlour Frerin is waiting for him, but Thorin waves at him asking to be left alone. He goes to his room and falls into half slumber on his bed.

* * *

Two days later Wren's health turns to recovery. The fever seems to be ebbing, and although they do not promise anything, the healers are hoping she might survive it. Thorin receives a note from Dis with the news. He doesn't know what he is feeling. He is sitting in his study, unseeing eyes fixed on the wall opposite from him, Dis' note crumpled in his hands.

Two weeks later Wren can already eat and even get up from her bed. Dis and healers are with her, after a while they allow Thror to come visit her. Another fortnight passes, and Dis asks Thorin at the dinner table whether he wants to come visit Wren. There is a challenge in Dis' voice, Wren is never mentioned in the family conversations, Frerin's wife whips her head and stares at the siblings. Kili and his wife exchange looks, Frerin's face is dark, and Thorin ignores his sister's question. He has not seen Wren since the day the young healer convinced him to visit her.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Since I can't answer some of you in PMs, ****my darling readers****, here are some answers to reviews:**

**Darling ****dearreader****, Fili's wife left the mountain to live with another woman in chapter 7. Frerin got married after the aggravation with Wren moving into Thorin's chambers in chapter 6. He seems rather happily married, and in this chapter we will get an update on their relationships.**

**Dear ****GuestReader A.****, Thorin visits Thror three times a week for about ten minutes to find out how the boy is doing and how his education is going. It is becoming harder for him since the child is more and more a person, which some men need to start noticing a child in general. Frerin doesn't visit Thror since he wanted Wren and considers Thror taken care of.**

* * *

Thorin enters the boy's rooms and finds Wren in them for the first time in a moon and a half. The boy is sitting near her on a divan, she is bundled in covers and furs, and she is running her hand through his ebony curls. She looks thinned but there is a faint colour on her cheeks, and she is smiling merrily.

The boy jumps off the divan and gives Thorin the habitual respectful bow. He is very decorous, he always addresses Thorin 'my King' and speaks only Khuzdul to him. Thorin nods, and the boy rushes to the table. Recently he started showing Thorin some of his work when the King visits, and the latter tends to stay longer in the chambers.

"Habanuh," Wren's voice is soft, "Perhaps the King wouldn't be interested in your maps."

"I'd love to see them," Thorin sits in an armchair, and the boy brings his parchments to him. He has an astute, strategic mind, and excellent memory, he is curious and industrious, and his tutors are pleased with him. They talk for a few minutes, Thorin is pressing his lips to hide a smile at the boy's haughty rendition of his previous lesson, and then Thror leaves to his small desk to finish his writing lesson. Wren is sitting her eyes on the window, and Thorin notices distress hiding in the corners of the red lips. He remembers the pale mask of death on these features and slowly moves to sit on the divan near her.

"How are you faring, my lady?" She turns to him, and he think he has forgotten her face again. He notices the high cheekbones, the delicate wings of the nose, freckles in constellations.

"Much better, thank you." She casts her eyes down and smoothes the fur on her lap. "My lord, have I displeased you in any way?" He looks at her in confusion, but she does not lift her eyes. "I was told you visited me in my illness, and that I was delirious and spoke. Were my words offensive? And Thror says you have not been visiting as much as before, and I have not seen you..." Her voice wavers, and he sees her taking a deep breath to calm herself. He ponders lying and telling her he was preoccupied.

"You did not talk to me when I visited you, you were too weak." He slowly speaks, and she looks at him askew. Her cheekbones are pinker now, and he is suddenly overcome with tenderness and some sort of piercing desire. It is not a greedy flame, not a hunger for her body, but he imagines pressing his lips to this flushed cheekbone. "I got scared, Wren," his voice is very quiet, and she sharply turns to him. "You were dying, and it affected me. I did not wish to see you weakened and enervated." She frowns slightly, and then suddenly picks up his hand. It has been years since they touched, and even longer since she initiated a contact.

"I am here now, I am gaining my strength back," her fingers indeed squeeze his hand tightly, "I know men are not equipped to handle mortality, life and death, birth and withering," she gives him a small smile, and he returns it. "That is why most healers are women. But I'm faring well now." She is still very slender, but he is not to tell her that. He pats her hand with his other palm, and she quickly pulls both hands back. The memory of her skin is burning his hands. Thror makes an irritated noise, his quill screeches, and Wren chuckles, her eyes on her son. _She only has eyes for her babe, _Thorin remembers his sister's words, and he excuses himself and leaves.

* * *

Two moons later the news come. Frerin's wife is expecting, but the parturiency is complicated. Healers and midwives are concerned, and the atmosphere in the halls is tense. There has always been a friction between the Princess and Dis, both competing for the status of the oldest woman in the family, and Frerin is tired of their squabbles. They exchange venomous remarks at dinner, now that Frerin's wife is with child, she becomes more irritable.

He is returning to his halls and hears loud voices coming from the parlour. Dis and Freda are arguing again, but this time the reason is new.

"You kept his former mistress in your halls, and his bastard as well!" Freda's voice is ringing, and Frerin cringes. He knew sooner or later Wren would be mentioned, he is surprised it has not happened earlier. "And I am certain it is due to your protection she is now residing in the King's halls. It is a disgrace to our house!"

"Let me decide what is good for my house!" Dis is raising her voice as well. They have probably been in dispute for a while, it takes a long time to make Dis lose control thusly. Frerin flees.

He finds his brother in a courtyard, training. They spar for a bit, and then they are sitting on a bench, tunics thrown over their shoulders, drinking water. The silence is companionable, and Frerin closes his eyes. Sometimes he feels like he is suffocating in the Mountain.

* * *

Frerin starts training with Thorin more often, anything to flee his halls that are more of a battlefield than a shelter these days. He is laughing at himself, he expected his brother to lose agility and these trainings to be Frerin's time of triumph, but Thorin only seems a more cunning fighter, his avidity and strength seem only have increased, while Frerin gets tired more quickly than ever. And then a ridiculous jealousy comes. Frerin wonders if having Wren as his mistress makes Thorin such. He catches himself looking Thorin over attentively, looking for clues, perhaps a copper hair on his undertunic, a ribbon tied on his wrist, Wren used to do it for Frerin, some markings from passionate love.

One day Wren shows up during the training, she is leading the boy by the hand, and the blue eyes of her son are shining. She apologises for intrusion and asks if Thror could watch their sparring. Thorin is smiling widely and allows with a wide gesture of his hand. Frerin thinks back at the day when he woke up with horrible headache, half his face in deep bleeding scratches, and the terror he felt when the memories flooded him, of Wren's pale face and her slender arms protecting her child from his rage. Frerin still doesn't understand how it happened. He could never hurt her, he is certain, but even now after all these years she is not looking at him.

Dis then told him to never come to Thror's rooms again, she told him Wren would never forgive him and would always perceive him as a threat to herself and her child. Frerin is looking at the boy now. It is a strange feeling, like looking at his own childhood memories. That is exactly how Thorin is in Frerin's earliest memories.

Their training swords clash. Frerin is distracted, he feels Wren's eyes on himself, while Thorin has always had an exceptional ability to focus on a fight. Frerin lands on his back again and again, cut down with Thorin much longer training sword. It mimics the distinctive shape of Orcrist, and Thorin is laughing. It is not malicious, but Frerin feels his jaw clench more and more tightly with every passing minute. He wraps up the training and leaves. The last thing he sees over his shoulder is Thorin placing the training sword into the boy's hands. They are leaning over the blade together now, their curls of the same shade mix, and Wren is looking at the two men with tenderness. Old offense stirs in Frerin's heart, it could have been him if Thorin hadn't stolen it from him. The woman, the child, the loving look Wren throws to Thorin while he is smiling into the boy's eyes… Frerin mindlessly walks into his halls, but the loud voices are once again ringing behind the closed doors, and he rushes into the armoury. One can always find a drinking mate there, or someone to discuss swords with.

* * *

Thorin finishes his usual training, and pulling on a clean tunic he walks into a passage, absorbed into his thoughts. He bumps into someone, and there is a soft gasp. He sees Wren, she has shied away from him, and he takes a step back from her not willing to frighten her. The passage is dim, but then he sees that her cheeks are burning. The stairs they are on are narrow and lead from the yard into an armoury, he cannot imagine what she could be doing here unless she was looking for him. He assumes she has a question, and he looks at her expectantly. She excuses herself, the voice is high and tense, and rushes by him. There is another door in the opposite side of the yard, but it leads to the pantries, again he cannot imagine what she would need there. It is none of his concern after all, so he shrugs and starts walking to his halls.

* * *

Thorin has been drinking for many hours now, a wild debauch has been unwinding in his chambers. Many of his warriors, some guests from Esgaroth and Dale, and plenty of harlots from both cities of Men are drinking his ale, and there is singing, loud screams and several rooms are occupied with orgies now. He gets up, and swaying violently he starts walking towards the kitchen.

She is obviously not sleeping, one wouldn't be able to sleep with all this noise, and he pushes the door expecting to see her with her usual book at the table. She is not here, and he angrily throws the bottle from his hand into the cold stove. It mournfully clanks, ale spills, but there is no splash of fire. He cannot perceive why, and it irks him more.

He turns around and starts marching to her rooms. He has not been there since the day he knocked out his brother with the plummet of his sword onto her floor. Her rooms are empty too. A feeble thought that the King is not to wander his halls drunk out of his senses thrashes in his mind, but then he decides to inspect one more location.

There is light in her study in the infirmary, she is sitting at a large desk, a register of some sorts in front of her. There are letters and contracts on the desk, everything in neat piles, and he feels irritated at how put together she and her life always are.

"Why aren't you in the kitchen if you are not asleep?" The question seems logical to him, but she does not answer. She is pale, and he sways. He wants to take a step towards her, but then he sees that she is clenching a letter opener in her hand. His eyes run over her body, she is tense, ready to jump on her feet at any moment, and he sees dilated pupils and white lips.

He does not know why he is still standing in her study, but then he lifts his eyes and meets her widened amber ones.

"I love you, Wren," he leans back at the nearest shelf with some jars and rubs his face with his palms. "I have from the start, from when you came here with Frerin." Part of his mind celebrates the liberation of saying it outloud finally, another part notes the absurdity of his behaviour. He does not care. "I know you do not seek any intimacy, but..." He does not know what else to say, his thoughts are sluggish, heavy, like mill stones, and he makes a step ahead and picks up a parchment from a corner of her desk. He now sees that these ones are her drawings, not recipes or contracts, and he is looking at a portrait of smiling Balin. He has never even thought of whether she is acquainted with his warriors.

"Could we discuss it in the morning, my lord?" Her voice is calm and collected. If she were not still holding the letter opener in her hand like a weapon, he'd assume she was not affected by this presence. He nods and tries to move away from the table. His body does not listen to him, but then he pushes himself harder, and walks out of her study.

* * *

He wakes up in his bed, there are two women sleeping near him, and he rolls off with a groan. After visiting the bath chambers he walks out in his parlour, and finds Frerin and three more men still drinking. He does not remember when his brother joined them. Frerin is completely drunk, but they are stubbornly trying to open another barrel.

Thorin goes back to the bath chambers and soaks in hot water for an hour. He can hear courtiers and maids cleaning up in other rooms, from time to time a maid comes and dumps more hot water into his bath. He washes his hair, and stays in the tub for a bit longer. He knows he is stalling. He needs to go see Wren.

* * *

He does not find her in her rooms, and he is shortly worried she decided to leave the Mountain. He assumes she was terrified last night, but then he deems his own fear absurd. He finds her in Thror's rooms. The boy is very excited, he spent the night in Lady Dis' rooms, Thorin understands Wren sent him away when the first barrels were brought into Thorin's chambers. Thorin listens to Thror's account of the games he played with Dis' maid, and then he asks Wren to have a walk with him.

She is pale, after the sleepless night, and they stop at a balcony overlooking a courtyard. It is empty, and she is leaning her back on the railing. He is standing facing at the opposite direction. His arms are folded on his chest, hers are fidgeting with the belt of her simple home dress. She is silent, and he looks at her angrily.

"What I said last night..." He wants to take it back, but he is not a child. The familiar ache under his ribs rises again, it blooms behind his sternum as well now, and he takes a laboured breath in.

"You were not yourself, my lord," her tone is calm and even, and he suddenly sees red.

"I was drunk, I have not lost my mind!" He raises his voice and then feels ashamed. He can see her body jolt, she immediately looks frightened. "Kuthu zall tamdini ib-bund rârâk zataznishîn tu," he is sneering through his teeth. _When ale enters the head, secrets will fly out. _She is looking at him from the corner of her eye, he does not understand the expression on her face. The long pale fingers are wriggling, and he wants to grab the hands to stop this nervous fidgeting. She is right though, what does one say to the pathetic drunk blabbering? He can see her small breasts rise under a modest bodice in slow measured breaths. She arrives to a certain internal decision and meets his eyes.

* * *

habanuh = (Khuzdul) my gem


	9. Chapter 9

"I cannot be your mistress, my lord," her words are simple and sharp, and he feels even more irked, she is too calm, while he looks like a blithering idiot.

"I was not intending to offer, Wren," he does not mean it to sound as if he did not want it. He still says hurtful things, he thinks, while he is just trying to be understanding.

"I cannot be anyone's mistress, not after..." She stops and takes a deep breath.

"I know, Wren," he softens his voice, he does after all, and she turns to him. Her eyes roam his face, he is withstanding her inspection, and then she frowns.

"You do not understand, I cannot... I cannot lie with anyone anymore..."

"Wren..." He is trying to stop her, but she lifts her hand halting his words.

"You have to listen to me!" Her voice gains strength, and she looks directly in his eyes, "It is not about status, or my place in Erebor, I just… I am incapable. I cannot allow anyone touch me, it terrifies me..."

"Wren, I know, I can see it." Her lashes flutter in a nervous gesture, he sees she was hoping she was hiding it well. "Worry not, I do not think others see it. But Wren, what I said yesterday… I would not ask this from you. If you did not desire it… If you did not desire me."

"Then what would you ask from me?" Her brows are hiked in confusion, and suddenly he chuckles. He is not certain himself that it is not hysterics, there is truly nothing funny in the situation they are in.

"If you were by chance to return a miniscule of my affection, I would ask for..." Her studying look is unnerving, and he is frantically trying to understand how they ended up in the situation of proclaiming feelings. He is endlessly uncomfortable, especially from sudden understanding of how crucial his next line might be, "...companionship." She blinks and then stares at him. There is a mixture of doubt and mockery in her eyes.

"Companionship?" And then he can see there is an impertinent remark she is trying to keep from falling off her lips, and then he notices the corners of the said lips twitching. She is mocking him, and then to his own surprise his mood changes as well.

"Yes, my lady," he realises he is chaffing, "I am capable of companionship, and I can even say I crave it. Is that too ludicrous to imagine?" She cannot help it anymore, to keep her sharp tongue under control she sinks her teeth into the bottom lip, but a short snort escapes, and she presses a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I see. You think I only crave some base services from women. Mindless lechery perhaps?" Her hand is still covering her mouth, but the slanted eyes are laughing at him, and he theatrically shakes his head. "I did not expect such shallowness from you." That is her undoing, she bursts into a small laughter, and he smiles to her. She is endearing with her funnily wrinkled nose, squinted eyes and a few little curls jumping around her face. She is still chuckling, her eyes lowered, and he inhales slowly, "Wren, I gave you my word all those years ago, and I have kept it. You are never to be forced into anything you do not wish yourself. But if you were ever to..." He does not know how to ask, and he is suddenly terrified to scare off her lighter mood, but she nods and he sees her lift her hand. The long delicate fingers are trembling, and then she places her cool palm on his wrist.

"I have nothing to offer you, my lord," her voice is quiet but firm, and she meets his eyes, he thinks he sees melancholy in her amber irises, and he wants to reassure her, tell her it is alright, he is not asking for anything, but she speaks first, "But I would love for us to spend more time together. Perhaps our association could be expanded beyond silent drinking tea in the same kitchen at night." She is giving him a shy questioning look, and he chuckles. He is feeling foolishly hopeful, he has not felt so even in his adolescent years when his first interest in women woke up.

"We also see each other in your son's rooms."

"Hardly what you probably had in mind when you said companionship, my lord," she tentatively jokes, and he nods.

"Hardly, but not that unrelated. I do enjoy my visits to his rooms. And when you observe my training," suddenly her face wavers, and he does not understand the shift in her mood. He wonders if she thinks of Frerin. She looks almost panicked, and he covers the hand she left on his wrist. "What is it, Wren? Is it Frerin? He does not train with me anymore..."

"Oh," her red lips form a circle, and he makes himself tear his eyes off them. And then suddenly she starts laughing loudly. This time it is unrestrained, merry laughter, and then she presses her hands to her cheeks. "No, it is not Frerin… Not at all..." He does not understand, but he is distracted by the blush spilling on her cheekbones.

"Are we in agreement then, Wren?" He might need some confirmation, some sort of closure for this unexpected conversation, and she chews at her bottom lip and then nods.

"Are we to arrange some… shared pastime, my lord?" She blinks and then snorts herself from the absurdity of her question. And then just as he expected there is a gleam of impishness in her eyes. She schools her face into a serious expression. "A walk to the Tapestries Halls perhaps?" Those are the habitual place for courting couples to have a stroll in, and he cocks a brow at her. "I would offer a musical evening but with my lack of talent you might reconsider your proposition. I expect my singing to disenchant you in a matter of minutes." He has forgotten her drollery. She is mournfully shaking her head, and he is tempted to silence her with a kiss or another gesture of sorts but he remembers what this conversation started with.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?" He feigns an exaggerated cantankerous frown, and she snorts again. It is a funny sound, like from a cat that got into a dusty corner under a bench.

"Perhaps a bit," she is pressing lips together, hiding a smile, and he gives her a sarcastic "uh-huh."

"I think we should limit ourselves to accidental meetings under favourable circumstances. I am afraid my ego is too bruised to withstand a premeditated meeting with you. There will be no mercy from your wit if you have time to prepare your quips."

She once again nods, and after giving her a bow he leaves the balcony.

* * *

Dis has been watching Wren's sensuality wake through the last few years. Unlike the thick skulled men, who have just thrown Wren aside like a broken toy, Dis is patient and observant. She notices the small changes, softer line of lips, brighter eyes, how Wren's long fingers brush at her neck when she is absorbed in her work more and more often. Wren's slim body seems more supple these days, and sometimes the woman runs a quill to the underside of her jaw, in a slow unconscious caress, and Dis cannot tear her eyes off the soft last twist of a copper runaway curl that brushes on Wren's neck.

Dis is watching the delicate line of the jaw, the small pink ears, slender shoulders. Dis is a Dwarf, she has been taught to appreciate strength, sturdiness, the men of her race, their might, the hair, all over their bodies, the rough skin. Wren is made of smooth cool lines, fluid movements, she is frail, and at the same time Dis finds her most enthralling. There is an unbendable will in Wren. If Dis tried she'd never be able to compel Wren to do what Dis dreams about. All Dis can do is wait and make sure when time comes Wren is to come to her for comfort and tenderness. Dis has never felt that much tenderness towards anybody, even her sons when they were tots. She is a passionate woman, but all she wants now is to cradle this narrow angular face in her hands and taste the bright red lips, the caresses she craves are only for Wren's pleasure. In heady indecent dreams she sees running her hands along the slender legs, caressing the tiny breasts, pressing her mouth to the pulse beating in the pale blue vein on the delicate throat.

And now, in the last few moons Dis is feeling as if she is watching a snowslide. It starts with small cracks and shifts, just like those avalanches she saw when travelling the mountains young. It starts with looks and slightly curved up corners of lips, with Wren's body staying relaxed when Thorin enters the room, with her not being startled when he passes by her in the passages, with him coming more often into Thror's rooms. All Dis can do is watch with cold terror clutching at her heart as the snowslide gains power, as Wren smiles wider, the looks change, from friendly and open, to half lidded, from under her black lashes, as Thorin comes unnecessary close to her divan when asking of how the boy has been doing. Dis watches Thror showing more familiarity with the King, she listens to louder and louder laughter to be heard in the child's rooms. Like a person caught between two slopes with an avalanche coming, all Dis can do is watch the all ruining power come crashing into her, destroying her hopes, breaking her world.

* * *

Thorin finds himself in an excellent mood these days. He comes to visit Thror as usual, this time the boy shows him a drawing of hammers his teacher assigned to him that morning, and a few minutes later Thorin finds himself fixing the mistakes in the boy's draft and explaining the differences in peins. Thorin's and Thror's fingers are covered in graphite stains, and the boy rubs his nose in frustration, his wide small hands are not deft enough to sketch what he wants. Thorin sees the stains on the child's face now, and laughs.

The boy's tutor comes, and Thorin gets up to leave. Wren rises too, and then she smiles to him mischievously and offers him to proceed to her bathroom. He gives her a confused look, and she gestures towards his face.

"You have identical stains on your nose and cheeks, my lord."

Thorin is lathering soap over a basin, Wren stayed behind in her bedroom he had to walk through the get to the bathchamber. There is a small mirror on the wall, and he washes off the dirt. He is wiping his face with a towel and steps out of the room. She is sitting on the edge of her narrow bed. The room is bare and modest, a wardrobe and a small desk, lots of drawings and books, no vanity. There are pots with some herbs on an alcove shelf, and a trunk by the wall. Thorin has just been in her son's rooms, with its luscious carpets on the floor, opulent, almost extravagant furniture, tapestries on walls, heavy expensive curtains, and Thorin frowns. He is a Dwarf, such lack of luxury is not appealing to him. He feels uncomfortable. He gives her a look, the dress is frustratingly simple and stern too. She lifts her eyes at him and smiles.

He sits near her, and their eyes meet. Today watching her son, he had a revelation. What years ago was born as a nagging feeling, then a doubt, in the recent years has become a well formed question. He needs to know, but it never came to his mind to ask her. The realisation of how simple it is makes his head spin.

"Whose son is Thror, Wren?" The slanted eyes widen, all colour rushes away from her face, and he keeps their gaze locked. She is frozen, then her lips part slightly, and then he can see tears pooling in the amber eyes.

"No one has thought of asking me," her voice is raspy, "Even your sister… She bore two sons, and even she didn't..." She blinks, salty drops spill, and she hastily wipes them with her hand. "I assumed everyone thought I did not know..." The familiar ache clasps on Thorin's insides behind the ribs. He is suddenly not certain he wants to know the answer. He asked himself, he is a man and a Dwarf, he requires clarity, but he realises everything will change, and suddenly he realises he is content with hoping Thror is his. After all, what does it matter? It would just be his possessiveness talking.

"And do you know?" Why is he asking? She nods, her eyes drop on her hands, fisted on her lap. They are sitting in silence, and he picks up her hand and brushes his thumb on her knuckles. It doesn't matter, he lies to himself, but then he remembers of the woman sitting near, he needs to take care of her, she is trembling, and he speaks softly, "Wren, forgive me, I should not have asked, it matters not..."

"Frerin was away that week, he was traveling South, to the meeting with Beorn's warriors..." Her eyes are immediately distant, she is lost in memories, and he is holding his breath. "I knew from the start... When I found out, I was terrified and did not think straight, but even without counting… I knew..."

He pulls at her hand, her body is the closest to his it has been in years, but then she presses her hands into his chest and breathes out, "No..."

It hurts, he feels sharp offense, from the refusal, it feels as if she does not perceive this moment as significant as he does, but then he makes himself let her go. The hands that were splayed on his chest do not move.

"Please, not like this." Her tone is pleading. "Not when it is mixed with those memories..." Her face is close, and he meets her eyes. He does not understand, sensations are not mixed in his mind, there is only the hunger for her lips. But in the years that passed he learnt that if not all women than at least Wren thinks differently from him. And he learnt to respect and admire this. He searches her eyes, they are frantic, she indeed did not want to offend or displease him, and he gives her a soft smile.

She is the first woman he has ever tried to and wants to flirt with. That is what allowed them to make the first steps, and he is not taking a new hammer while the old one still does the job.

"Will you give me a signal then when the moment is good? Perhaps a note? A raven?" He cocks a brow, showing her he is jesting but not jabbing, and her eyes change. The tension steps back, and she gives him an amused look. "Something short and to the point. _Lips available for rent _perhaps?" The joke is silly, but she snorts, and they both notice where her hands stayed. He thinks she will move away, but she leans in and presses her lips to his cheek.

"You will be the first to know," she murmurs, he is looking at the orange freckles on the turn up nose.

"Do send a courier for me," he is keeping his tone grumpy, her skin is an inch away, the fragrance of lilacs fills his nose, he is fighting the urges. "I do not trust those birds..." She hums in agreement, and the fingers curl on his chest. This is the limit of his self-control, and he roughly pushes her away from him. She almost falls off the bed, and he jumps on his feet. She looks dazzled, and he hastily bows and leaves.

* * *

A week later Thorin cannot sleep, the kitchen in his halls is empty, and he does not want to stay in it alone. The day before Wren and he stayed in it all night, she was twirling an empty cup on a saucer, telling him of her childhood. He walks through the halls, to the Royal Halls kitchen and finds his brother roughly thrusting his hips into a maid, from behind, she is spread on the large table, her face pressed into its surface, her skirts bunched up. One of Frerin's hands is clenched around the back of her neck, the other one is fisted around a handful of her chestnut curls. The table legs are skidding on the stone floor, and Thorin grabs Frerin's collar and drags him back. The girl sobs and slides on the floor, on her knees. Frerin jerks in Thorin's grip, Thorin understands that Frerin is drunk, and he pushes him into the wall forcefully, aiming to inflict pain. Frerin groans and grabs the nearest shelf to stay upright.

Thorin picks up the girl's elbows and helps her get up.

"Did he force you?" She is looking at him, her eyes are mad and terrified, and he rubs her upper arms, "Did he force himself on you? Are you hurt?" She shakes her head, and Thorin isn't sure which question she is answering.

"She offered herself, she wanted it..." Frerin cannot speak clearly, Thorin has just noticed the stench of several days of drinking around his brother.

"Shut up, or Mahal help me, ag zasasmaki rathkh-hund," Thorin growls, gritting his teeth. The girl twitches under his hands, but then her eyes meet the King's.

"He didn't force me… I offered myself..." She is young, a maiden, and Thorin cannot understand this stupidity. Frerin can be charming, but she is of marriage age.

"She will not conceive, worry not, nadad," Frerin's words are slurred, "I made sure of it." The girl looks even more embarrassed, Thorin understands what exactly they were doing on the table. "No more bastards in these halls," Frerin's tone is derisive, and that is when Thorin places the blow. He is not holding back, sharp pain goes through his knuckles that he no doubt just broke over the cheekbone of his brother, and the pain flashes through his forearm and echoes in the elbow.

The girl screams, and Thorin adds a kick into the ribs of Frerin who fell on the floor from the devastating punch.

* * *

Frerin is given an opportunity to sleep it off, and Dis has a conversation with his in her rooms. It turns out he has been sleeping in the armoury for the past three weeks. Dis reminds him that every Dwarf is expected to withstand abstinence while his wife is expecting, and none is allowed to touch another woman once Mahal linked one's hands with a daughter of Aule, even if she tends to crash water jugs over her husband's head. There is slight vengefulness in Dis' tone. She of course thinks that Frerin and Fredna are equally to blame for what has happened.

The maid is sent away to Iron Hills, with a large dowry and a position reserved for her in Dain's Halls.

Three days after that night Thorin walks into the kitchen and finds Wren waiting for him, and tea is already poured into two cups. He heavily sits down, and she stretches her hands across the table and picks up his broken one carefully. He indeed shattered several bones there, and her cool fingers gently examine the swollen knuckles.

"You do not bear responsibility for everything that is happening in your Halls and your family, my King," she speaks softly, in her clear impeccable Khuzdul, and he looks at her in shock. He feels guilty but didn't expect anyone to guess it. "Frerin has always been the self-indulgent one, could never refuse pleasures," she continues in Common speech, and her head is tilted, amber eyes studying the purple bruises. "He is like a child, he is magnificent as long as everything is well and no changes transpire. But life is not all merriment and comfort… And not every Dwarf has a core of old mithril." She places his hand back on the table and gives him a soft smile. He feels like the previous phrase was a compliment to him, but he stops himself from this conceited thought. He is no better than Frerin, but then Thorin thinks that had he had the woman he loves in his bed, even if just to sleep intertwined, he would not run to the help. He remembers Wren's slender arms wrapped around him at night all those years ago, the soft little smile she would meet him with, without waking up, when he would slip under the covers, and he does not know how the words slip from his lips.

"If ever you feel you want it, come to my chambers, Wren. Just for a night, just to sleep..." She straightens up on her chair, her eyes immediately guarded, but he is not taking his words back. "You have nothing to fear, Wren, I can control myself." He gives her a calm look, he is certain of himself. She scrutinizes his face, and then her features soften.

"I will remember your invitation, my lord." She speaks quietly, and he nods. They start drinking their tea.

* * *

ag zasasmaki rathkh-hund = (Khuzdul) you will taste my knuckles


	10. Chapter 10

It takes another moon for her to come for the first time. The door into his bedchambers opens, his eyes fly open, in the old habit of always being vigilant, his fingers close around the dagger under his pillow, and he realises who that is as soon as he can hear the quiet steps of bare feet. A narrow blade of moonlight streaming in between the curtains falls on the white of her nightdress for an instant, he feels the bed slightly dip under her weight tentatively placed on the edge, and he lifts the covers inviting her in. She stretches along him, her body is more slender than he remembers, she has cold feet, and there is a moment of hesitation, and then she moves into him. A narrow cool hand lies on his bare chest, and she pushes her nose into his neck. The tip is cold, and he inhales the lilacs fragrance. He wakes up alone and buries his nose into the pillow still carrying her smell.

She doesn't come the night after that, he feels her studying cautious eyes on him when he comes to visit Thror in the evening, he feigns nonchalance. Thorin is teaching the boy chess figures, he is too young to remember the rules of the game but they both enjoy talking about the moves of each figure. At some point Thorin sharply lifts his face and just as he expected he catches her frowned examining stare. Her eyes widen, and he smirks to her lopsidedly. He is teasing her, as if telling her she takes it all too seriously, and she presses her lips defiantly.

She comes that night again, he is not sleeping, waiting, and she takes the same position. Her fingers and toes are cold, and he covers her hand with his. She jerks, and her body goes rigid. He waits for her to fall asleep, she then relaxes into him, a slender leg goes around him, and she presses her cheek to his pectoral muscle. He picks up the delicate fingers and rubs the knuckles with his thumb.

There is no way to predict whether she will come each night. Sometimes he doesn't see her through the day, and then she spends a night in his arms, sometimes they run into each other in the halls and she gives him a wide merry smile, he is lying waiting for her, and falls asleep alone. Nights with her are easier, he sleeps better, feels better in the morning. But he knows he is already asking a lot from her. In her sleep she is trusting, her arms wrap around him, sometimes he lies awake and shifts, only to feel her press into him tighter, nuzzling him. When awake she is always on guard, her body is rigid, breaths measured.

* * *

Frerin's first and only child is born after three days of agony for the mother and apprehension and concern for Erebor. Healers do not give any surmises all through these hours, the girl, and the child is female, which means she is more anticipated and cherished already, is born before the term, she is small and weak, the mother is bleeding out, the healers do not promise either of them to survive the first night, but at dawn the child is crying loudly, and Freda opens her eyes. She is too weak to talk but she feebly stretches her arms to Frerin who is holding the princess in his arms.

Frerin stayed in the chambers all through the terrifying time of uncertainty, and for days to come the Princess only sleeps in his arms. She seems to feel calmer near him, even her mother who is slowly healing seems less comforting to her. A wet nurse is brought into the halls, Fredna's milk never comes, and Frerin insists on being present at the feedings. It is already obvious that the Princess has his features, rather quickly the eyes change into his green colour, and there is none other father in Erebor that would be more attentive and devoted.

Fredna is never expected to bear another child, she sustained severe damage to her insides from the turbulent birth, as well as her nerves seem to be more ramshackle than ever before. Dis cautiously expresses concern whether Fredna might be a danger to herself, she suffers from acute maternal melancholy, for a moon and a half a nurse is put in the same chambers with her to watch over her. Frerin comes rarely, he spends his days and nights in the child's room, he is neglecting his responsibilities at court.

Thorin wants to interfere, but Dis stops him. She promises him the matters will settle soon, and she is right. With time Fredna returns to her usual affairs, Dis purposefully shows her more respect and reverence now, and Frerin returns to his service. Inna, daughter of Frerin is a fussy loud infant, colicky and moody. She is constantly surrounded by maids, nurses and her kin. She obviously prefers the company of her father to any other.

* * *

Thorin is absentmindedly running his fingers through Wren's curls, she has fallen asleep hours ago, but he cannot seem to find peace of mind.

"What worries you, my lord?" Her voice is clear, and he jumps up.

"Mahal, Wren, I am an old Dwarf! You will give me an apoplexy!" He turns and meets the attentive eyes. She moves on her side, hand pushed under her cheek, supporting herself on the elbow, and he sighs. Her other hand is on his shoulder, and she strokes lightly. He picks up the hand and presses it over his heart. He does not want to share his unease with her, there will be a discussion, and although she never pushes, this way he won't be able to pretend he is not concerned. She is patiently waiting, and he is staring at the canopy above his head.

"After me Fili will take the throne, and then if he has no son, it is Frerin. I'd prefer to see a man raised by Fili on it, and not my brother… But with Fili's wife absent, and little hope for him to remarry successfully… Kili has no interest in ruling, Frerin seems to be stuck in perpetual adolescence." He trails away, she is still silent, and he looks at her from the corner of his eye. There is a soft small smile in the corners of her lips, and he huffs air out.

"So, it is the vague far away future and the prospect not actually rooted in reality that is keeping you awake, my lord?" There is teasing in her voice, and he gives her a glare. He is concerned with the future of his Kingdom, and she is drolling! "So, my lord," she pokes him with her index finger into the shoulder, his eyebrows jump up from such unexpected childish gesture, "Would you like me to lament with you or reassure you?" She gives him an innocent look, but he was not born yesterday, she is japing.

"Go to sleep, Wren," he grumbles, and she snorts.

"You are thinking so loudly that you are waking me up." He decides that if he ignores her she will give up and go back to sleep. He apparently has forgotten whom he is dealing with. "Frerin will not take the throne, the Mountain has always seemed like a prison to him. That is why he loves his daughter so much, she is an escape. He can think of her, and everything else matters little," her voice is calm, and he turns his head and looks into her slightly melancholic face. "Kili indeed cares for power little, Mahal will not gift him with sons, his line will not rule."

"You cannot know it," Thorin shakes his head in disbelief.

"He has been married for longer than Frerin and Fili, and he has married for love, and she still has not conceived. They will not have children." Wren's voice is sad, "She is older too, remember? Her family is very small, from Iron Hills, very few sons. She will not bear." Thorin watches her face. "Fili on the other hand… He is strong, noble, fair, he was unlucky. He married out of duty, as it was expected of him, but he has learnt his lesson. He will look for love, and he will find it. But he will be careful this time. Someone younger, full of life and passion, to bear his sons and to rule with him. And there are many willing, he is enticing."

"Oh is he now?" Thorin is not sure himself how much of the jealousy in his voice is an act. She laughs quietly. There is no other light in the room except from the moon, but he can see her features well.

"Perhaps. I cannot judge, I could never see any charm in golden hair," her eyes are mischievous, and he rolls his eyes.

"Go to sleep, Wren." She settles on his chest again, and he closes his eyes.

"Have I elevated some of your disquiet, my lord?"

"Oh yes, I feel so much better," his tone is sarcastic, "You have enlightened me that one of my sister-sons is married to a barren woman, while the second one is apparently a maiden's dream come true..." She snorts, her warm breath brushes at his skin.

"You place words in my mouth, my lord, I would not know, I have not been a maiden for quite a while," there is laughter bubbling in her voice, and he strokes the back of her head. They lie in silence for a bit, and he sighs again. She is right, there is no use in worrying about it now. He already starts nodding off when he realises it is now her turn to think loudly. There is some nervous restlessness in her, and she is drawing patterns on his skin mindlessly.

"Wren?" She does not move, and her body grows tense. "Wren, what is it?" She shifts again, their heads are now on the same pillow, and she is studying his face. He feels worried and is trying to guess the reason of her distress in her features. Suddenly a narrow palm lies on the back of his head, she decisively moves to him, and her lips cover his. Hers are firm, there is a certain edge to her action, and he gently puts his hand on her waist. He cannot push her away of course, but he needs to see if she jolts from his touch. She does, but then she only kisses him deeper. She opens his mouth with her tongue, but he still feels stiff and strained. That is the woman he has desired for years, and yet he softly moves away from her and cups her jaw with one hand.

"Wren, what is it?"

"I want this..." Her voice is tense, and he is not convinced. He also doesn't understand how far she wants to go. He gave her his word these nights are to be chaste. He remembers her passion from before, the fire is not here. He is afraid to scare or hurt her. Not understanding the reason for the strange change, he cannot know when to stop. He did not care enough then, he cares too much now.

"Why?" He is stroking her jaw with his thumb. The lashes flutter in the usual gesture.

"It will happen sooner or later. I do not wish to waste any more time..." They are still lying facing each other, and the cool tips of her fingers run down his chest, then stomach, and lie on the waste on his night breeched.

"It does not have to happen..."

"I am terrified..." They speak at the same time, and suddenly she moves into him, hiding her face into his neck, her hands clasped and pressed between their bodies, the gesture is vulnerable and trusting, she has never touched him this way, and he wraps his arm around her, pushing the other one under her, enveloping her in embrace. It is their first one.

"I desire you..." She whispers. "I have for years... I used to hide on the stairs to the training yard to watch you train... I thought my body would never feel anything, but it does... With you..." He is pressing his cheek into the crown of her head, he heard little after she said she desired him. He is taking slow breaths in, not to start moving, grabbing, kissing, tasting. He is even squeezing his eyes. "But I am terrified..." He starts stroking her back, in long controlled brushes of his shaking hand, it is an awkward caress, he is not used to such chaste gestures. He also has never bedded a woman he loves.

She shifts and is pulling on his shoulders asking him to roll over her. He presses one hand into the sheets, not placing all his weight onto her, and then he remembers it is her. And years have passed, and he thinks of all those times in the past years when he wanted to kiss and did not, wanted to touch and did not allow himself. He is not coupling with her hastily and greedily.

"Wren..." He breathes out her name and gently kisses the corner of her lips. They are trembling under his, and he is supporting himself on one elbow, not covering her body, instinctively avoiding restraining her. He is kissing the cheek and the jaw now, keeping demanding tone out of his caresses. "Wren... Wren..." He places his hand on her shoulder, rubs the skin through the dress, brushes down her side, to the miniscule waist. She turns her face, their mouths meet, she is tasting and exploring, he is inhaling and exhaling her hot breath. Her hands start moving, first timid, then curious, then demanding. She is arching into him now, he is not sure what she wants now, but then she grabs the hem of her nightdress, pulls it up and presses her hips into him. He exhales sharply, her fingers untangle the strings on his breeches, she is distracted by it, and her kisses are bungling. Her hand wraps around his length, and he gulps air with open mouth. "Wren..."

"Do not talk, do not talk, I will doubt... I will change my mind..." She is grasping his member in the hand, firmly, and her smooth thigh goes on his hip, he realizes she pushed his breeches down, her skin brushes on his, the smooth silk on him, he feels the warmth, she is pressing her centre closer, and he shakes off the daze, he picks her up under her arms, rolls on his back and seats her on him.

She rushes ahead, she is kissing him greedily, he is bucking up his hips, his tip presses into her, she sinks on him, and there is a hiss and a suppressed moan from her. He feels resistance and friction, she is too dry, and he grabs her hips halting her. She jerks in his hands, her nails sink into his shoulders.

"Please, Thorin, please..." It is in Khuzdul. He pushes his hand under her buttocks, lifting her slightly, his fingers slide under her, and he starts stroking the soft folds. A raspy groan falls from her lips, he pulls the hand out, licks his fingertips, and returns to his caresses. She is making the soft mewling sounds he has forgotten, they used to drive him into lustful aggressive frenzy, but he is still controlling himself. Moisture coats his fingers, he quickly replaces them with his member, and she drops down on him, her cheek on his shoulder. He is clenching his teeth, she is tight, and she was not aroused enough.

"I cannot move… Please..." Violent shiver runs through her body, he understands what she is asking for, his palms are under her hipbones now, he lifts her and moves up into her. The first thrust is met with a shrieky cry, he halts, but she asks for more.

He cannot, he has learnt his lesson. He lowers her down, cups her face and makes her look into his eyes.

"Wren, if there is pain, we need to stop..." Her eyes are widened, black pupils flooding the amber irises, and she shakes her head. He does not understand the gesture.

"I do not know... Yes, there is... pain..."

He removes her off his body, she sobs when his member slides out of her, and he rolls on his side and pulls her into himself, her back pressed to his chest. He squeezed her tightly, and then he moves her hair off her face, he is whispering some comforting nonsense. She starts crying silently, slender shoulders shake, and he is stroking her upper arm awkwardly. She falls asleep quickly, and when he moves away from her she does not even twitch. He walks into the bath chambers and quickly relieves himself of the arousal. He does not require much, he is used to pleasuring himself thinking of her, this time his body still remembers the firm grasp of her strong hand and then her tight quim. He returns into the bed, pulls her into tight embrace and falls into slumber.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This is the final chapter, my darlings.**

* * *

He wakes up alone, and the day starts. He comes to Thror's rooms and finds Dis instead of Wren. He can feel his sister's studying look, Wren's absence is indeed an unusual circumstance.

He does not see her for two days. She is not in Thror's rooms when he visits, neither does she come to his bed chambers, she is not in the kitchen at night, and he grits his teeth and continues his mundane affairs. If not for her absence he would have just taken that night as a rough beginning of something different, he woke up rather hopeful in the morning, but her behaviour tells him she sees it differently. He is concerned for her but barging into her rooms demanding explanation is the last thing he knows he should do.

She comes to see him in his study in the evening of the third day. He has returned here after dinner, there are some urgent letters he needs to respond to, and she comes in without a knock. He lifts his face to ask her to come back to his rooms later, and then he sees what she looks like.

Her fiery hair is scattered on her shoulders, she is dressed in a nightdress and a robe, and the belt is untied, he can see the outline of her breasts, and she decisively approaches his desk and then walks around it. Her eyes are shining feverishly, and her lips are the brightest red he has seen them.

She picks up the skirt of her nightdress, hikes it up and suddenly climbs on his lap straddling him. Her hands go on his cheeks, she scrapes her short nails on his beard, and then she lowers her face and places a long languished kiss on his lips.

"I have had half a glass of wine..." She cannot have any, he knows that about her, and he is looking at the bright red spots on her cheekbones. "I am not muddled, but I think my body will be more relaxed this way. The inner muscles…" She pauses, as if deeming this topic less important than the next one. "The decision is sober, I do not have any doubts." Her tone is firm, and she pushes her fingers into his hair at the back of the head. "I am tired of..." She does not finish her phrase, she shakes her head and kisses him again. The tip of her tongue tickles the corner of his lips, and he opens his mouth for her. His hands lie on her ribs, and she is not startled. She shimmies her shoulders shaking the robe off. His hands are roaming her torso, and she arches pushing her breasts into his palms.

"Door..." He rasps out, he is bunching her nightdress now.

"I locked it behind me." He picks her up under her arms and seats her on the desk. She pushes parchments and ink bottles off the desk in a brash gesture, it is so unlike her that he pauses, but she falls back, stretching on the table and her legs go around his hips.

"Wren..."

"I am not befuddled," she smiles to him, and then he sees that old fire, it has been years but he recognises the desire in her. He lunges ahead, his hands are on the buckle of his belt, he pushes the legwear down, breeches together with the trousers, her legs are wide open, and he grabs her hips and jerks her towards him. She stretches her hands to him, and her lips are twisted in some hungry feral smirk. He pushes inside her, and she arches on the table with a loud coarse moan. He can hear his own teeth screech, the sensations are so harsh, that he needs a moment of lapse, and her back falls on the table, and she opens her eyes. Her lips are slightly parted, and then the pink tongue darts out, wetting the plump bottom one. It spurs him, and he thrusts forcefully into her. She cries out and squeezes him with her thighs. Unlike her apparently, he feels inebriated, he is trying to remind himself that it was just three days ago that she was crying in his arms, her body rigid and incapable of accepting him, but suddenly her narrow strong hands grab her breasts through the gauze of the dress, and he growls.

For an instant he worries he will not last long, he has desired her for a long time, his head is spinning, and she has always been an exceptionally gratifying lover for him. She is moaning loudly, her hands fly up to her hair, and suddenly she shifts, disrupting his rhythm. She is flailing her arms, and he starts laughing. She looks like a cat trying to catch a piece of parchment hanging on a yarn. He does not understand what she wants.

"Hands!.. Give me your hands!" It is a whine, but there is a demanding note to it.

He grabs the long cool fingers, pulls her towards him, the copper curls swoosh, and her arms wrap around his neck tightly. Her shining eyes are in front of him, and he catches her mouth. The height of the desk is wrong, she is too high, he steps back, she is hanging on him, and she is so light that he just turns, his hip painfully meets the armrest of his chair, he pushes it away, the thud of it on the floor is loud, she throatily laughs and drops her head back. He places greedy open mouth on the pale skin of her throat, she gasps, and he thrusts up into her. His hands on her backside, her arms on his shoulders, they set a vigorous rhythm, her body flies up and plummets down, each of the movements is accompanied with a loud, obviously pleased scream from her.

He is approaching his climax, and she sinks her nails into his shoulders and whines loudly. He is too focused on his sensations to tell her he will do his best. The only solution he can come up is to kneel in front of a settee by the wall, he almost topples over, his trousers are around his ankles, he has to make several small steps. He thinks she has snorted mockingly, he will address this impudence later, and his knees meet the hard wood of the floor. He hisses and deposits her backside on the velvet seat, he is far from delicate, but she does not seem to mind.

Some vague memories from all those years before tell him she just needs to be given freedom, and he is right, she leans back, presses the hands of straight arms into the settee behind her and grinds her hips into him. There is a twist in her movement, the world sways, from the pressure on his member, it feels as if she is wrenching it, and she starts moving, in forceful demanding jerks, her heels pressed to his buttocks, and then she comes with a triumphant lustful scream.

He starts pumping into her, the spasms on her quim are thrilling, he is snarling through his teeth, she is wailing, and he releases, the last few plunges are violent, her body is jolting back and forth on the settee, and he falls down, probably crushing her, his breath erupts in raspy groans out of him, his forehead sweaty, and after a few moment of shuddering and trying to determine whether he is still alive he scoops her, peppering kisses on her face.

The storm is ebbing, they both slow down, she was clawing at his shoulders, now the hands are smoothing his hair. He is tenderly kissing the translucent eyelids and the delicate bridge of the nose.

* * *

They move to his bedchamber and continue coupling all through the night. They climax, sometimes together, sometimes one arrives there faster, and after a few instants of rest one of them already starts reaching for the other. Sometimes it is simple, he is thrusting into her, their gaze locked, her legs around his hips, sometimes slowly and sensually, sometimes he plunges into her, her back scraping at the wall, sometimes she is clawing at him, sometimes her lips explore every inch of his skin. Sometimes an inventive mood strikes, mostly her, and they end up in the most unusual positions. They hardly talk through the night, but words of love are whispered, in Common Speech and in Khuzdul. He calls her 'hurseluh' _my flame of all flames_, she whispers 'kuyleluh' _my life _in return.

* * *

He wakes up, and for an instant he thinks his bed is empty again, but then she rolls on her side and a slender arm goes across his stomach. She mumbles something in a sleepy grouchy voice, and he is watching her nuzzle him and fall into deeper slumber again.

He is lying in his bed, some lazy half formed thoughts slowly float in his mind, and then the familiar pain blooms behind his ribs, it shoots towards his sternum, and he takes a spasmodic gulp of air in. His forehead is suddenly clammy with nasty cold sweat, and he squeezes his eyes.

"Thorin?" Her voice is as if heard through a mist, and he feels her roll off the bed. He clenches his right hand over his chest. There is a pitter patter of bare feet, he is trying to take deeper breaths but it feels like a battle ram is sitting on his chest, and she is back. "Thorin, nod if your left arm is numb." He nods, it feels as if he cannot move either of his extremities, and a cup with some drink is pressed to his lips. He tries to swallow, it is bitter, he splatters, she is murmuring something comforting, and he is taking small sips, cringing.

He falls back into the pillows, behind his lids some unpleasant white sparks are dancing, and he feels her hand run through his hair.

"What was it?.." His voice is nothing but a rasp.

"Your heart is worn out, I have suspected it for years, and I suppose last night was a bit too exuberant for it," her tone is calm, and his eyes fly open.

"Are you saying?.." His tone is indignant, and she smiles to him, although her eyes are still worried. She is also bare. She has just run through his halls to her study wearing nothing but a modest necklace of granate beads she has had on since yesterday evening. Suddenly he starts laughing, it is choked but a merry laughter nonetheless. She is watching him with a concerned frown, which only makes him droll more.

"I could have died… In bed with a mistress… A young mistress for that matter!" He guffaws, "An old goat, did not survive depraved exuberant fornication..." His shoulders are shaking, and she tilts her head.

"I do not see anything funny in this prospect, my lord," her tone is strict, and he beckons her with his hand. She presses her lips stubbornly, "Thorin, measures have to be taken to..."

"Yes, yes, I will let you dose and medicate me to your satisfaction later, but you should come here now..." She carefully lies near him but he shifts, he is glad to notice sensation is coming back to his left arm, and he picks her up under her arms and pulls her on top of him.

"Thorin, you have just had..." She starts protesting, trying to move off him, but he grabs the back of her head and pulls her to his lips. She jerks couple more time and then gives in.

* * *

Nothing really changes in Erebor Halls, Wren continues her service in the infirmary, her association with the King has been speculated before, but her mad dash through his halls has become a simple and decisive indication. There is certain relief among the inhabitants of Royal Halls, everything is now clear and understandable. After the first morning Wren does not see Dis for a few days, she was aware of Dis' feelings but did not expect them to be that deep, but then the Princess returns to her duties and her behaviour seems just the same.

Wren still takes her meals in her son's rooms, but with time Thorin tends to prefer having dinners in his rooms, where he can enjoy her weight on his lap, and she can criticize his diet and pull ale mugs and wine goblets out of his hand. He does not actually want the brew, he just likes her pouts and indignant huffing.

Thorin spends the same three evenings a week in Thror's rooms, Wren loves watching them talk. Identical brows frown over a discussion of a battle of old times, and Dis who also comes sometimes chuckles behind her book. Recently Dis' cheeks seem rather rosy in the morning, some sort of sensual softness appears in her features, and Wren feels relieved happiness for her friend. She never asks, but suspects which of the ladies in waiting spends her nights in Dis' rooms. After everything that has transpired the Princess and the healer finally settle into the genuine loyal friendship.

A year later Freda is with child again, but four moons into parturiency healers are called into her rooms. She is given abortive herbs, her life is in danger, and although it is rarely done, Frerin insists on her taking them. Several moons later he brings a mistress into his chambers, and they say she was chosen by Fredna herself. She is a stabilizing influence on Frerin, he drinks less, previously only his daughter stopping him from excessive ale consumption for weeks in a row.

Wren is being very careful, she is still taking herbs but she also keeps track of days in her calendar, and the King grumbles that if she could she would avoid intimacy with him for twenty seven days in a moon. She laughs and asks what exactly he is complaining about, the skill of her mouth or other acts they partake when she is being cautious. He says he has no complains and topples her into the sheets.

* * *

One night they are lying in bed, their lips and hands are caressing each other, they have satisfied the hunger but there is some strange yearning in both of them, they cannot seem to get close enough, and the tone of their movements changes, and soon she is sobbing, asking for something she has no name for, and he is crushing her into him.

"I want to bear another son for you, my King..." She is pleading, and tears spill out of her eyes.

"Please, please, hurseluh, nothing would make me happier..." He pleads in return.

They conceive their second child the next moon, the King is laughing that it was the last flash of the dying out fireworks, she puffs air and gives him a glare. Her second parturiency is as easy as the first one, and sixteen moons later Unna, daughter of Thorin is born. She is written into the register as the daughter of the King, the scribes and loremasters are not invited to the King's bedroom for that, he just sends a courtier to them as soon as the girl is born. She is a strong infant, dark haired, with russet brown eyes. She is constantly surrounded by her brother, her father and her aunt, and Wren recovers from her delivery surprisingly quickly.

Her third pregnancy is a shocking surprise, she seats the King on their bed, and wriggling her fingers she announces the news. He has the prepostrity to joke that at least this time he does not need to beat other potential fathers to pulp although the situation seems to him eerily familiar. She does not speak to him for a week. Dain, son of Thorin is born two moons too early, but the birth goes without complications.

* * *

Fili marries, she is young and exceptionally alluring, from an old family, she is enamoured with him to no end, but he takes his time making the decision. Their firstborn, Nari, son of Fili is what they call 'a child of the first night.' Were he born a week earlier, he could have been considered illegitimate. No one doubts the rectitude of this marriage though, Fili just receives approving claps to the shoulder from older Dwarves.

* * *

The King's last child is born because Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror has a tendency to lose control over his desires when his consort is nursing his children. For once her bodice is full, she will go back to her twig like constitution once the milk is gone, he grabs her around her middle in a passage and carries her to the bedchambers, thoroughly enjoying her feigned squeals of indignation. They spend a day in bed. She is laughing, kicking him, yelling that if she were an old Dwarf with a weak heart she'd be more demure in her dalliances, and he gives out an exaggerated growl, and they end up coupling against a wardrobe in the chambers they have been sharing for years. Othin, son of Thorin is born so soon after his brother Dain that they are treated as twins, a miracle among Dwarves. Othin is a replica of his oldest brother and his father.

When Wren's firstborn son reaches his battle age, for the first time in history of Erebor changes are made in the lore register, and he finally carries the right name of his father. With years to come he becomes the closest and most loyal of his cousin Nari's lieutenants, his support and counsel in many years of rule. Other children of Thorin Oakenshield find peace and happiness in their own way, just like their parents did before them.


End file.
